‘Middle East on Fire: Israel positions tanks on Gaza border.” Journalist Phoebe Greenwood’s debut novel follows Sara Byrne, a freelance journalist in Gaza in 2012, who is reporting for a “pretty rightwing” British newspaper. Staying at the Beach Hotel, which is occupied exclusively by “middle-aged foreign correspondents”, she jostles with other reporters for stories while maintaining less-than-cordial relations with her fixer, Nasser. It could almost be a comedy of manners, with sketches of staff members and scenes from the hotel lobby. But it isn’t because, as the hotel owner puts it, “Gaza is a prison in non-stop war”.

Vulture is a caustic study of what it means to report from a conflict, and particularly relevant to the current moment. It’s a knowing portrait by Greenwood, who was a freelance reporter in Jerusalem between 2010 and 2013, and later a foreign affairs correspondent at this newspaper. Her antiheroine visits a morgue, where the bodies of children, “dusted in sand and blood”, wear torn Spider-Man pyjamas. She narrowly escapes a bombed hospital, which is “running out of anaesthetic and even basic painkillers”. Still, her editor requires stories, and so – oblivious to the personal toll on Nasser – she pursues increasingly dangerous lines of inquiry. None of the other journalists has “stepped foot near a terror tunnel”, Greenwood tells us, so we follow Byrne in pursuit of this exclusive. Meanwhile, a photographer is killed, and she befriends a strange, hostile child, all the while witnessing scene after scene of unimaginable destruction.

The title of the book is testament to its wry tone, and ultimately its position. In Byrne, Greenwood has created a particularly acerbic character, reluctant or perhaps unable to offer sincere emotions in the face of horrifying events. Her battle-weary sense of humour, however, cannot last, and Byrne’s mental state becomes increasingly unstable. She believes a bird – identified as a pigeon, but described more like a vulture – is tormenting her. Her eyes are yellow; she winces with pain when she walks. Greenwood handles this descent well; the narration remains jocular, even arrogant, meaning it never feels hackneyed.

A brief foray into newsroom pressures and expectations is lightly handled, but Greenwood punctures it succinctly. As a bereaved mother says to Byrne: “You come, you watch us die, watch us grieve, take our stories, go home. Do you help? No. My husband cleans your sheets, you kill his family.” It is a stark rebuttal to Byrne’s self-pity.

Occasionally, Greenwood’s creative writing feels less successful than the news writing within it: the protagonist’s filed copy is sometimes clearer than the prose itself. But Vulture remains a remarkably skilful debut. Greenwood’s style is compelling and blackly comic; the story could not be more serious.