The Rise and Fall of the British Nation, David Edgerton. I'm a bit of a fan. Edgerton is a great one for taking popular narratives and fucking shredding them to pieces. The man's never met a declinist narrative he hasn't kicked in the balls, and it's a delight to see him tackle a bigger subject (as if industrial production in WWII wasn't big enough). Up there with the likes of Adam Tooze, Richard Overy, and Daniel Todman.
The Machine, James Smythe. What happens when you use a machine to wipe someone's bad memories? Nothing good. What happens if you use that machine to restore those memories? You can probably guess. A fairly straightforward rehash of Frankenstein, and despite some good writing, it never moves beyond tribute band status.
Blood Standard, Laird Barron. Abandoning his usual extremely creepy horror for a noir crime tale, Barron takes some of the melodrama too far, and made me laugh at the wrong times as a result. Not a bad book, but not his best by a long way.
Cabin at the End of the World, Paul Tremblay. This is an awful little story of an unwilling ambush of a family at a holiday cottage, and it's not an easy read for me, and I don't have kids. Horror through and through.