A little while later, with nausea stirring stomach, he stood ., half-dressed at the window. It was another day without any sign of rain, another morning without birdsong; in the clear early light the garden below looked diminished and ordinary, the folly at the end a prop for an abandoned play and the glasshouse stained and shabby. The windows were thickly glazed in uneven panes that threw back a mottled reflection nothing like the neat-edged image in his own mirror every morning. The face he saw now was too pale and lean, the hair too long, and under heavy lids glossed with sweat the pale eyes glittered. He raised his right hand, uncertain whether the other man would raise his left in the proper greeting. 'What came over you?' he said. 'What in God's name have you done?' The watching man had no reply, and John returned to the edge of the bed, cradling his aching head in his hands: what had he done, after all? Nothing brave or impassioned, not the brief lapse into madness to be expected of a man arriving suddenly in middle age, but an abuse of kindness and trust: he'd been welcomed and cared for — he touched the place where the woman had put a kind hand — and in return he'd deceived them all. Recalling the words of the preacher the night before (I think perhaps we should talk) he felt the unease of a child awaiting the headmaster's summons.A guy goes to a house and stuff happens. I had no idea what was going on in this book, or why I should care. You can get it here.
This was my top unread book acquired in 2015, one of the Clarke Award submissions that was not actually science fiction. Next on that list is A Buzz in the Meadow by Dave Goulson.