Joanna Wallace’s debut novel, You’d Look Better as a Ghost, introduced one of the most delightfully unlikely protagonists in contemporary crime fiction: Claire, an artist, a grieving daughter and an unapologetic serial killer whose moral compass points in directions all her own.
It is a novel that revels in the macabre humour of following a woman who solves life’s little irritations with duct tape, zip ties and a hammer, provided the persons involved look like ghosts prior to death, anyway. That balancing act should be impossible, but Wallace pulls it off with aplomb.
The obvious question hanging over The Art of Getting Hammered is whether lightning can strike twice. Fortunately, Wallace understands that simply sending Claire on another killing spree may have worn thin very quickly. Instead, she cleverly shifts the emphasis. Claire isn’t at the top of her homicidal game anymore.
Her murderous enthusiasm has evaporated, everyday annoyances no longer inspire homicidal creativity and she’s drifting through life wondering whether even serial killers can suffer from burnout. It’s a wonderfully absurd premise that gives this sequel an unexpectedly reflective edge while losing none of Wallace’s wicked sense of humour.
Claire’s latest attempt at normality — helping hopelessly convivial neighbour Mrs Davis recover her missing dog — does involve a spot of breaking and entering, but no one ends up dead. Still, it leads to a job in a local pub, where she stumbles upon signs of a nefarious criminal operating on what Claire considers to be her territory. You can watch a video of the author reading the first chapter here.
Having a serial killer with ennui acting as a detective allows Wallace to poke affectionate fun at crime fiction conventions while constructing a genuine mystery. On paper, Claire should be irredeemable. In practice, she’s oddly sympathetic – not because Wallace excuses her actions but because everything is filtered through Claire’s gloriously skewed internal logic.
She observes social interactions with anthropological fascination, grows exasperated by breaches of basic manners and approaches murder with the same weary professionalism most people reserve for office work. Many of the funniest moments come not from acts of violence but from Claire’s befuddlement at ordinary human behaviour.
The deadpan humour remains pitch black throughout. Wallace invites you to laugh at situations that would be horrifying in almost any other novel, yet she somehow avoids making light of genuine suffering. It is a difficult line to walk, requiring absolute confidence in tone, and Wallace rarely puts a foot wrong.
Crime fiction has always embraced enclosed communities, and Wallace transforms the familiar British locale into a fertile hunting ground for both comedy and mystery. Regulars, staff and customers all have secrets, grievances and questionable motives, creating an entertaining cast of suspects without overwhelming the narrative.
Wallace scatters clues fairly while ensuring things remain slightly off balance, helped enormously by Claire’s unreliable priorities. She notices details most detectives would miss while remaining blissfully oblivious to matters that would concern almost everyone else. That inversion keeps the puzzle feeling fresh.
One of the book’s greatest strengths is that it develops Claire rather than simply repeating her greatest (hammer) hits. Wallace explores what happens when Claire begins questioning the role murder plays in her own identity. Is she losing her edge? Is she changing? Or has she simply become bored?
Beneath the comedy lies a surprisingly thoughtful examination of purpose, loneliness and belonging. Claire may insist she’s different from everyone around her, but Wallace repeatedly reveals just how human many of her anxieties really are. This humanisation is helped by the reappearance of Helen the Heron and the Scotsman.
Yet, despite her now managing a friend or two, Wallace resists the temptation to make Claire more conventionally likeable, trusting the ongoing appeal of a protagonist whose ethical framework remains spectacularly broken. It’s a risk that pays off because Claire’s consistency is precisely what makes her so compelling.
What might once have been dismissed as an outrageous gimmick – unrepentant narration by a serial killer – has matured into something far richer: a dark comedy, an offbeat whodunnit and a surprisingly insightful character study all at once. Wallace understands that distinctive voices matter just as much in crime fiction as ingenious plots.
The Art of Getting Hammered delivers exactly what its irreverent title promises: sharp laughs, sharp plotting and, naturally, the occasional sharp blow from Claire’s favourite weapon.
For more homicidal heroines, try My Sister the Serial Killer by Oyinkan Braithwaite.
Viper
Print/Kindle/iBook
£11.99
CFL Rating: 5 Stars
