Take an Exclusive First Look at ‘Stations,’ Louise Kennedy’s Haunting New Novel

For our November Book Club, we’re turning our attention to the superb second novel of Irish author Louise Kennedy, whose book Trespasses was a surprise hit translated into over 20 languages and adapted into a television series starring Gillian Anderson. In Stations, out Nov. 3, she follows the changing relationship of two school friends, Red Camelin and Róisín McCaffrey, over two decades. The pair, who meet in the 1980s as teenagers, navigate the Troubles, moving from Ireland to London in search of they-know-not-what, addiction, abuse, the stewardship of adults who seem disinclined to discuss any of it in a way that matters, growing older, and not knowing how to talk about any of it either.

At the outset of the book, Róisín has just moved to the Republic from Northern Ireland and has yet to find a way to fit in at school. That’s until she earns the trust of Red, a boy who is “spoken about in giddy whispers”—partially due to his thick lashes, and partially because, between smokes, he is already drinking enough to need his stomach pumped and couch surfing instead of going home to his fancy house. On this particular day, to distract Róisín from arguments with her mother, Una, and her new boyfriend, Enda Gilhooly, Red brings her down to the waterfront to bunk off and begin to blur the lines of what will become an endlessly confusing relationship. Read where that takes them in the exclusive excerpt below. 

25 June 1983

The queue was along the footpath, and Róisín had to inch sideways to reach the counter. Mags, her boss, looked as if she was about to have a brain hemorrhage. She had decided to take in secondhand schoolbooks and sell them on. Today was the last opportunity to off-load, and everyone had come at once.

You want to see the shite they’re giving me, said Mags through her teeth, smiling psychotically at the line of customers.

Róisín loved working for Mags, who had opened Basin Street Books with so little capital she could scarcely afford to stock it: when she sold a book, she used the profit to buy two. The gaps in the shelves were closing, but the business always seemed to be on the brink of collapse. Still, working there on Saturdays kept Róisín in cigarettes, and every week she bought a book with her staff discount, recommended to her by Mags. The Women’s Room, A Room of One’s Own, The Second Sex. Mags said she herself was not fully “out” as a feminist because she was pretending not to cohabit with her boyfriend, a prematurely bald PE teacher called Seamus. They shared a four-bedroom house with another unmarried couple to give the impression they had one room each, lest they arouse the suspicion of the parish council—which was partly why she was skint.

Róisín took over at the till so Mags could examine each text and either reject it or come up with a price. One batch smelled strongly of salad cream. Some had long lost their binding and were more a stack of pages than a book. Most had been written on. Fighting for peace is like fucking for virginity. The Who. I love Red Camelin.

Many of the customers spent the money Mags paid them for the schoolbooks before leaving the shop. The Famous Five and Malory Towers, the Charlie Haughey biography everyone was talking about, the latest Jeffrey Archer. By four o’clock, gaps had reappeared in the shelves and everyone was gone. Mags rushed to the door and locked it, turning the sign to Closed. Never again, she said. Let’s get the fuck out of here and enjoy the weather.

Róisín paid for the copy of Plato’s Symposium Mags had ordered for her and went down the town to meet Red. The Derby was on in the Curragh, the street colloped with horse shit that smelled particularly ripe in the sunshine.

Red was on a banquette in the Sorrento Grill, sucking sugar from a spoon.

Happy birthday, she said, handing him the book.

He read the back cover. Thank you. But I never got you anything.

Yeah, you bastard. Una is at the races with Gilhooly. I’m fighting with my ma.

Plus ça change, he said. What about this time?

Enda fucking Gilhooly.

It had started after the GAA disco. When Gilhooly wasn’t showering the kitchen with flakes of his scalp, he was ringing Una, asking if Red was there, if he ever went home at all. Una behaved differently toward Red now, gently interrogating him. Red claimed to be amused by their interest, but he didn’t come around much anymore. Worse than that, Una and Enda had begun doing things together. Going to the cinema, walking in the Wicklow Mountains, orienteering. That morning he had taken her to the races, coming through the back door when Róisín was at the kitchen table. She dropped her spoon in her cereal bowl and ran upstairs, standing in the bathroom doorway. Your boyfriend is in the kitchen, she said. Can I not even have my breakfast in peace?

Her mother grabbed a tissue and began blotting at her mouth. I suppose you’ll be meeting your boyfriend later, she said.

It was truly impressive how readily Una stooped to her level these days. And she was wrong. Róisín was proud of never having had a boyfriend. Her friendship with Red was on a higher plane than the grubby maulings of their schoolmates, all that boys-and-girls carry-on seemed so petty in comparison. She had ordered the copy of The Symposium because they had talked about platonic friendship. You don’t understand anything, she said.

Her mother screwed the cap on her foundation and tossed it onto the bathroom windowsill. Just get out of my road, will you?

Sometimes Róisín enjoyed goading Una, watching her struggle to keep her temper. Mostly she felt desolate. Her father hadn’t phoned for a fortnight. Una relished in reminding Róisín that when he was in the habit of phoning she usually refused to speak to him. That did not excuse him; after all he’d done he should endure his punishment until Róisín decided it was over.

Red tapped her forehead with his finger. God, I can nearly see what’s going on in there. Stop ruminating. Have you any money? I’d love a pint.

Piss off, cows ruminate, she said, opening her wage packet. Mags had paid her an extra three pounds.

Why are you smiling? he said.

Cos I’m fucking loaded.

The town’s grimy windows and bad paint jobs looked even worse in the sunshine. She pushed the button at the pedestrian crossing. We could be here forever, she said, and all that awaits on the other side is more of the same.

Profound, said Red.

A bus passed, a tractor, a Hiace van. The green man appeared and they began to walk. A souped-up Ford Escort was idling a few feet away, the three young men it carried watching them cross. If I said you had a beautiful body would you hold it against me? called the driver at Róisín. Red doubled back and went striding toward the car, but the lights changed and the men took off guffawing. Ignorant fuckers, he said.

They went in the side door of the Shillelagh. Four rickety stools in front of the mahogany counter. Behind it shelves of goods she imagined elderly bachelors couldn’t live without: firelighters, dried marrowfat peas, mouse traps. Red hit the bell on the counter and Pascal Conway came limping from the lounge next door. Róisín ordered a pint of Harp for Red and a soda water with lime for herself.

She looks about twelve, said Pascal without so much as a glance at Róisín.

Red chuckled and she elbowed him in the ribs. He opened The Symposium on a random page and began to read.

Then, said Eryximachus, the weak heads like myself, Aristodemus, Phaedrus, and others who never can drink, are fortunate in finding that the stronger ones are not in a drinking mood. (I do not include Socrates, who is able either to drink or to abstain, and will not mind, whichever we do.)

Socrates me bollocks, said Pascal.

Red closed the book and looked unhappily at his pint. We need to do something wholesome, he said. Will we hitch to the weir?

They bought things for a picnic—Calvita cheese, Ritz crackers, crisps and a flagon of Linden Village—and left Pascal rubbing his knee. At the top of the town, Red retreated into a bush. Put out your thumb, he said.

An hour ago you were defending my honor, and now you’re sexually exploiting me.

Who’s going to give me a lift? Stop scowling or we’ll be here all evening.

Róisín arranged her face into what she hoped was a genial expression, Red laughing from the hedgerow.

A few cars passed before a middle-aged woman pulled up abruptly. I’m only stopping so you don’t end up in a gully with your throat cut, she said through her open window.

As Róisín sat in the front passenger seat, Red jumped in the back. Ah now, the woman said, but she wasn’t really angry. She was on her way to visit her father in the County Home, she told them, and they should enjoy themselves while they still had control over their bowels.

She left them in a lay-by a few miles south. They took a path through a wood, beneath green leaves and flashes of blue sky. As they approached the water, they heard shouts and laughter: the town was forty miles from the coast, and this was where people came to swim. Róisín began to complain that she didn’t want to be with scores of others, but Red was beating a trail through a dense copse of willow. She was about to grumble about that too, but suddenly they were on a bend in the river where they couldn’t be seen.

He took off his shoes and socks and stepped in the water, sloshing about. Like his hands, his feet were narrow and long-boned. Elegant. She followed him in, but the little stones on the riverbed pricked her soles and she was out within a minute.

There was just enough room for them to stretch out. The ground had a dank, heady scent and felt almost warm. Red opened the cider and passed it to her. The fizz went up her nose, making her splutter.

I’ll never make a drinker out of you, he said.

She squashed pieces from the cheese and put it on the crackers. Red ate fast, washing it down with mouthfuls of cider. Róisín slugged from the bottle again and lay beside him. Red was on his side, his face resting on the crook of his arm. A bird was chirping nearby.

He sang the refrain from “Blackbird” by the Beatles. He was always quoting lyrics, and they never meant anything. Still…

What the fuck are you looking at? he said softly.

That’s what I’m wondering.

What would Plato say?

Plato can fuck off, she thought, but played along, reaching for the book. It seemed to be a series of opinions about Eros, the god of love, given by men lying around gorging on food and drink served by slaves. They talked about beauty and love, the sort of love practiced in Sparta, love as a way of ensuring procreation. There did not appear to be anything on what she understood to be platonic love.

Well? said Red.

It’s bonkers. A fella meets another fella on the street and says, Were you there the night Socrates was talking about love? And the other fella says, Now, funny you should say that, but I was only talking to a lad the other day and he said he wasn’t there, but he knows someone who was.

That’s like having a conversation with Nathy Phelan. Give us a look.

She passed it to him and he flashed the cover at her, putting on a serious face. Pretentious, moi? he said.

We’re a pair of dicks, said Róisín, going up on her elbow and drinking more cider. She lay back down and closed her eyes. Her head was spinning, not unpleasantly. When she was small she had seen a comedy sketch on television. A man had been buried alive, banging the lid of his coffin and screaming. It gave her nightmares, but perhaps the box was the problem. It felt as though the earth was molding around her body, holding her, and then Red was shaking her awake.

The light had fallen a little and she was cold. He said she had been asleep for about forty minutes, that he was now practically a classics scholar. That they should go back to town. As they were pulling their socks on, she hesitated. In half an hour they would be loping down the main street and whatever was happening between them here, and there was something, would be over. Red, she said, but didn’t know what to say next.

What?

Nothing, she said, wriggling her feet into her shoes. Her mouth began to crinkle. Afraid she was about to cry, she made to stand up.

Wow, he said, pulling her back down. What?

Her voice sounded slightly hysterical.

He kissed her, with his lips at first, then his mouth opened a little and she opened hers, and it wasn’t the revolting intrusion she had seen at school discos, all jabbing tongues and slurping. It felt tender, nice, but he broke away, resting his forehead against hers.

Ró, he said.

She didn’t want to hear that it was a bad idea, that they were just friends. She kissed him back. This time he touched her, running his hand from her cheek to her neck.

On the way back through the woods, he went ahead. He didn’t speak, except to warn her about briars and nettles. She began to fret that they had destroyed something, but right before they reached the road he kissed her again, more a smack than a snog, she who’d been kissed for the first time half an hour ago discerned. They bickered once more about him making her hitch. She put her thumb out, raising two fingers at him with her other hand, and he watched her from the siding, a half-smile on his face. They were picked up by a man who smelled of fresh Guinness, driving the filthiest car she had ever seen. He was talking about the Derby, but Red’s thigh was against hers and she couldn’t concentrate.

They ditched the bag of rubbish in a bin near the town hall and set off for Róisín’s house. She couldn’t count how many times they had walked this way together, talking and laughing, but a shyness had fallen over them. Twice she felt his eyes on her, but when she glanced back he was looking ahead. They turned onto her road, and when the house came into view she almost howled: the Datsun Cherry was parked behind her mother’s car on the driveway.

By the time Róisín opened the front door she was furious. I thought youse were going for dinner after the races, she said, barging into the kitchen.

“Hello” would have done rightly, said her mother. She was wearing a silky cream dress with diagonal red stripes. Its boat neck gave her narrow shoulders structure and her boobs heft. Róisín couldn’t help staring: she was beautiful.

Hello! said Red. You look great, Mrs. McCaffrey.

Ach now, said Una, the blush that was washing over her face making her even prettier.

Lickarse, said Róisín.

Enda scratched his head, and a skiff of dandruff snowed his sports jacket. What have you been up to the last while, son? he said, turning to Red.

Róisín stared at her mother, willing her to tell Gilhooly to stop, but she was still basking in the compliment.

I’ve been taking advantage of the clear skies, said Red. Lying under the stars, the heavens like a dome above me. One night a proper tinker invited me into his caravan. It was one of those covered wagons in bright colors with pots and pans hanging all over the gaff. His wife taught me how to read teacups. I’d read yours now, Mr. Gilhooly, only Mrs. McCaffrey buys teabags. The loose-leaf gear is your only man.

Róisín had stuffed her cuff so far into her mouth to keep from laughing she was nearly choking.

Enda, clearly well used to such lip, pursued his line of questioning. How are things at home?

Marvelous! Sure, it’s the happiest house in Ireland.

Jesus Christ! All that’s missing is a bare light bulb and him in an SS uniform, said Róisín, tossing her head in Enda’s direction.

Una looked like she was going to combust with the effort of keeping her temper. You had better leave the room, she said.

Happily!

Red widened his eyes at Una and walked ahead of Róisín into the hall. Whose side was he on?

Fucking cheek of them, said Róisín as they went upstairs.

Cheek of you. You’re like Nancy Spungen.

I was sticking up for you! She sat on her bed.

Yeah. You also wanted to embarrass your ma, he said. He was by the window. He tweaked the blind, surveying the street.

She’s a bitch.

There’s a pair of you in it, he said.

She felt like all the air had gone out of her. Walking toward the house, she had envisaged them alone, him kissing her again, touching her face with that faint tremble in his fingers. Instead she’d revealed what she was really like.

He sat on the bed. I didn’t mean it to come out like that, he said. You’re not a bitch.

I am.

Only to your ma. And she’s all right.

OK, she whined. I’ll stop.

Sometimes she was so comfortable in his company she forgot herself, farting, mumbling aloud, then, realizing he was there, feeling astonished to see him. Other times, like now, it was as though a crackle of lightning was going between them, like God’s finger giving life to Adam in pictures she had seen from the Sistine Chapel. Surely Red felt it too, but he was just sitting there.

When she could finally face him, his eyes were downcast. What we did earlier, he said. Plato would call it vulgar love. You don’t really think about me that way, do you?

She didn’t reply because she didn’t know how to.

After he left, she remembered the schoolbook Mags had taken in, I love Red Camelin printed inside the cover. IF UC KI NG LO VE RE DC AM EL IN she spelled as she fell asleep.

Excerpted from STATIONS by Louise Kennedy. Copyright © 2026 by Louise Kennedy. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.