The debut novel of Aimée Walsh, “Exile”, traces a narrative across Belfast and Liverpool – two cities intrinsically linked by their maritime history and the Irish Sea. The book finds its roots in their parallel weather-beaten, waterside settings, and the spectre of their grand Edwardian streets that leave an indelible impression of occupants in ages past. Both cities convey an implicit sense of closure, as though their final chapters have already been inscribed.
The narrative adeptly highlights this spectral geography, drawing parallels to Kevin Barry’s immortalisation of John Lennon’s final chapter in ‘Beatlebone’. Like Barry’s seminal work, ‘Exile’ extends this sense of inevitable destiny, embodied through the story of Fiadh, a young Belfast woman. The plot pivots around the ordeal of sexual violence she faces as she transitions from secondary school in Belfast to higher education in Liverpool. This devastating event disrupts the socio-cultural equilibrium of the narrative, instilling a sense of poignant urgency that noticeably diverges from the traditionally lamenting narrative found in tales of relocation.
Indeed, ‘Exile’, in its unique narrative, manages the extraordinary feat of adding layers to the storied history of both Belfast and Liverpool, almost remoulding their narrative portraits completely.
The novel unfolds with Fiadh ensnared in her final days at school, navigating her way between her domestic chores and a string of dreary student accommodations, seeking liberation. Fiadh’s Belfast is captured as a place of frugal merriment and stifled dreams, its monotonous cycles punctuated by bursts of intoxicated stories. The atmospheric storytelling paints a picture somewhere between Nikolai Gogol and Sally Rooney, with Walsh gently guiding Fiadh through the dark and ironic corners of Belfast’s Holylands district.
Meanwhile, Fiadh’s school companions Danielle and Aisling form an intricately layered friendship, marked by an intense physical closeness absent of emotional intimacy. A perverse relationship with alcohol symbolises a shared need for diversion, at any cost. Fiadh’s childhood friend, Andy, is the aggressor in her assault, with Walsh inferring the psychological and physical aftermath of such violence. The fallout is devastating for Fiadh, alienated and ostracised by her friends. Walsh’s ‘Exile’ shares thematic qualities with Anna Burns’ ‘Milkman’, utilising a form of aloofness as a stylistic rebellion against a society that only knows dissociation as a social norm.
Walsh’s debut novel, “Exile,” offers not just a collection of varied styles and locations, but an intimate narration of a part of Northern experience over the past fifty years. This narrative is brought to life through the visceral violence that paves the path towards an unforeseen conclusion, rich in cinematic quality.
Suspense builds in the reader as Walsh, with a casual and melancholic wit, accurately depicts a university seminar hall typifying the social awkwardness found in gatherings between introspection, self-revelation, and social status. Such competence in bringing such scenes to life is no trivial accomplishment, especially considering the sheer heaviness of the book’s subject matter. Walters artfully uses dialogue and precise detail of unique moments to weave this narrative, tracking late adolescence by focusing on the minutiae that define her characters’ lives.
“Exile” is a small-scale drama set largely in Belfast, a location often portrayed in literature and film. Fiadh’s disconnection from her new life, across the sea in Liverpool, is deftly managed with a combination of insight and humour. “Exile” offers no sanctuary, merely anticipating the next departure. Fiadh’s past trails behind her in the aptly termed chain migration, until she finds freedom and takes flight.
In contrast to many novels weighed down by the burden of violence, “Exile” maintains a fluid and spectral quality, echoing traces of other works from novels to films and TV dramas. This occasionally leads to an unsteady tone and pace, which improves as the narrative unfolds. Danielle and Aisling are insightful character studies, albeit not necessarily likeable, while Andy is revealed as a scheming narcissist. Fiadh, however, is the central pillar and magnetic force of the narrative.
“Exile” artfully illustrates the difficulty of expressing personal experiences, and the isolation that accompanies silence. This isolation, although not deadly, still dulls the part of the soul Walsh illuminates through Fiadh’s introspective journey. This understanding does not bring solace or justice, but it redefines what it means to be in exile. The novel gracefully intertwines judgement and retribution, leading to an unexpectedly riveting conclusion. “Exile” undoubtedly takes its rightful place in the pantheon of esteemed contemporary Irish literature.