"I had gained a swift understanding of how the inmates felt and why they behaved as they did. They could not mark off days and wait for their sentence to be over. They could not hope to escape, because they had nowhere to escape to... The only thing they had to look forward to was the next mealtime. If they clung on to wisps of their former life...it was because the rituals were comforting reminders of a better world, even if they were without substance."
This from a character confined, and losing his marbles, in Norwood. Hell, at one point he even mentions being overdue a haircut. It may not be quite as local as the third book, which climaxed at the bottom of my garden, but it's still altogether too close to home – though of course the series' frequent locations the Conquering Hero and the Electric Cafe, despite having made it from those twenties to these, are at last closed now, and who knows whether they (or much of anything else) will make it to the action's centenary in 2025. For suitably Cthulhu Mythos-adjacent reasons, too, with something only debatably alive bringing human civilisation to its knees not through malignity, but in utter ignorance that we even exist, because we're just as alien to it as it is to us – we're just more squishily vulnerable. Set against which, in a time of protests against historical inequality, one hardly feels in the mood to get Lovecraft himself down from the shelf, what with him being a massive racist. Thankfully, there's none of that here; indeed, some asylum attendants in 1925 Norwood turn out to be more progressive on trans issues than certain SFF authors of the 21st century. And even if Hambling couldn't have anticipated the present's exact flavour of awful, there are plenty of contemporary parallels in the tense mood of the age, with Hindenburg in power in Germany and fears of another war already mounting. The prelude talks about the floor giving way underneath you, destroying what you had thought of as a secure world - now a ubiquitous experience, but already an increasingly common one over the past few years. And even after his previous brushes with Yog-Sothothery, protagonist Harry Stubbs is now very much out of his depth, reluctant agent of a mysterious and ruthless organisation, working undercover at the asylum, and investigating a sinister film which sounds like it at once prefigures and far exceeds Un Chien Andalou. The description of that screening is one of the book's most powerful scenes, as also the strange flight from Croydon, evoked with enough of a thrill to suggest the dark reflection of a Ghibli flight scene. If it's elsewhere marred by spelling errors a decent proofread could have caught, I think it's nonetheless my favourite entry in the Shadows Over Norwood series, worming its way nicely into that most nagging question: what does sanity look like when the world is mad?