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In many ways, rented homes carry the essence of their previous inhabitants. Leftover personal items, lingering scents, and unclaimed mail create a tangible connection to those who came before. The sounds of neighbors can feel like echoes from the past, with their footsteps and everyday activities melding into the fabric of the living experience. Perhaps it is landlords who embody the most ghostly presence of all, influencing lives in unseen but significant ways.
Given this backdrop, it’s intriguing that the narratives surrounding the housing crisis don’t often take a more supernatural turn. Róisín Lanigan’s debut novel, termed a “gothic tale for generation rent,” dives into this theme with her work, I Want to Go Home But I’m Already There. The story follows Áine and Elliot, a couple who have just settled into a rental unit in a rapidly gentrifying area of London, a place marked by its unappealing reputation. While both are eager to embrace adulthood, Áine feels an unsettling presence in their new home from the outset.
This premise, though familiar, is given a revitalized perspective. Lanigan excels in capturing the contemporary experience of living in a city fraught with housing challenges, crafting poignant observations woven with humor and wit. For instance, one line reflects on recycling in a way that underscores the irreversibility of time: “she finished the fizz and put the tinsel in their recycling bin and thought about how long it would take before it disintegrated into the earth. A long time. Maybe never, actually.”
While the plot invites a mystical interpretation, Lanigan delves deeper into the psychological impact of being a tenant. Her protagonist senses something amiss, but as often happens, her fears are dismissed by Elliot. He argues that the quirks of their aging flat are simply part of its charm, epitomizing the common struggle of women’s intuitions being undervalued. The tension between reality and perception becomes a central theme: is it a matter of supernatural concern or simply the mental toll of their living situation?
Lanigan skillfully builds an atmosphere of dread, employing some conventional gothic elements but presenting them with a sardonic tone. Moments of levity punctuate a dense narrative, such as when the landlord is described in almost spectral terms: “him, or her, the anonymous spectral gombeen that sucked up all of their capital.” This clever depiction illustrates the financial anxieties tied to renting.
The author’s Irish background enriches the story, allowing her to explore the cultural complexities experienced by Áine. This dislocation is expressed in various ways, from friends’ unusual fears of death to traditions that intertwine the mundane with the mystical. Through Elliot’s derision of Áine’s family stories, readers can sense the underlying class and cultural tensions that add depth to the narrative.
Lanigan’s work offers several strengths, including its humor, engagement with societal issues, and reflections on the impact of living in poorly maintained properties, illustrated by themes of health and inequality. However, the book is not without its weaknesses; some passages drag on, and certain plot twists may be anticipated well in advance. There is a sense that the author exercises restraint, perhaps avoiding extending the supernatural explanations to a point of disbelief, which might frustrate some readers seeking a more pronounced climactic moment.
Nonetheless, the narrative lingers in the reader’s mind, effectively evoking a sense of unease and introspection. Beyond its ghostly motifs, Lanigan adeptly explores the psychological burdens of renting and the longing for a stable sense of home amid upheaval. The novel poignantly contemplates spirituality’s decline and where young adults might seek solace in an increasingly materialistic world.
I Want to Go Home But I’m Already There by Róisín Lanigan is published by Fig Tree (£16.99). To support the Guardian and Observer, order your copy at guardianbookshop.com. Delivery charges may apply.
Source
www.theguardian.com