Rowan Scrivener hears a voice, and sometimes, when stressed or scared, the voice makes him do things he never would normally, like the time he slammed the lid of the piano down on his sister's hand, breaking three of her fingers. It is 1939, war has just broken out, London is under blackout and schizophrenia is poorly understood. Rowan is sent to a hospital where he is to undergo a radical new therapy, administered by a German doctor.

What a brilliant, beautiful, heartrending book. Its power lies in its understated humanity. Rowan's is a tiny, surely insignificant drama in the face of the coming global conflict. He is not treated harshly or cruelly, but by today's standards it is clumsy, callous, insensitive and even contemptuous. Set against the scale of human suffering, however, Rowan seems downright lucky. About halfway through, in a scene of quiet devastation, we discover why this book has been set when it has and why the doctor is German, and suddenly every tiny mistreatment is set in sharp relief, not diminished but accentuated, as these vulnerable people are horribly exposed in the face of indifference or fear or spite at the hands of others.

This isn't a tale of plucky rebellion against institutional authority, it's a story of people struggling against an illness they cannot understand trying to get better with the help of people with limited insight, and who do not understand the limits of their vision.

Yeah, I cried.