Freddy Miescher Book 1

Heart-breaking, grotesque and funny!

A fictional tale about a lonely and troubled boy arrested for the crimes of a serial killing seagull.

Justice? Don't make me laugh! Life's not fair. So build a bridge and get over it!

A seagull in a seaside town embarks on a killing spree, destroying the local cat population. Naturally, the cats don't feel good about it and seek revenge after a brilliant Abyssinian called Joseph stumbles upon the truth and sets out to restore natural law: cats; predators, birds; victims.

Although media and public pressure to catch the cat killer build, a recession and the uncertainty of Brexit means the underfunded public servants aren't too interested in cat deaths.

But everyone must make sacrifices.

Well, not everyone.

Constables Franklin and Wilkin find evidence via social media leading them to a suspect. Unfortunately, their deductive reasoning is slightly off, resulting in a hapless teenager taking the fall, adding to the boy's struggle with growing pains and other more serious problems.

Mrs Crick feels nature's cruelty as the bird and his family reside on her roof. Although she loves wildlife, especially the sparrows that play in her garden, nature shocks and scares her sometimes. However, she's suffered worse things in her long life.

Nature is cruel, but the bloated British civil service is crueller, corrupt and stupid.

Most species try to protect their families, but life is hard, and DNA adapts slowly to cope with environmental changes. While most evolve to improve, some (humans) seem to get worse.

A dark social satire (depending on your point of view) that tells a tale of nature, family and politics.

Amazon

Excerpt from Fly, Die! © Copyright 2023 Steven Ryan

‘Oh, my God!’ she gasped, clutching her mouth. The boy had a fresh kill. How had he done it so quickly? She’d only lost sight of him for twenty minutes or so. Had it been twenty minutes? She wasn’t sure. Wilkin’s ardour had been intense and unexpected. Until a few minutes ago, she had only seen him as a colleague, not even a friend or male. But Wilkin’s near manliness had caught her off guard, igniting a spark she didn’t think existed. Reluctantly, she admitted her reaction had been reciprocal and just as spontaneous. Pushing thoughts of romance aside, she stopped digging her nails into her arm for the second time that night to concentrate on more pressing issues as she told herself, ‘Focus! Damn, it!’

Franklin decided the gullible cat must have approached the young scumbag for a friendly stroke, eager to reward the boy with a warm and friendly purr, only to be strangled or hit on the head in return. Was it dead? She couldn’t tell. It certainly wasn't moving, not on its own, at least. No. It's gone! She concluded as she scrabbled through hundreds of procedures in her head, finding nothing applicable. With her eyes fixed firmly on the boy, Franklin’s right hand covered the illegal Taser holstered securely on her hip for reassurance while reaching across her body with her other hand to the Walkie-Talkie hanging from a loop on her right shoulder.

‘KURCH!’

Freddy froze as he recovered from the climb, snatched from thoughts of his bed by a harsh static noise that rooted him to the spot. The cat had only just come to rest by his side as he turned to look over his shoulder in search of the sound’s source, seeing nothing except for swishing bushes at the foot of the ramp. Staring intently for a few seconds, struggling to see in the darkness and hear against the wind, the teenager wondered if something was moving in the undergrowth, but then, tired, he shrugged his shoulders and gave up, deciding it was probably just a fox or something else furry and walked away.

Franklin had dived instinctively over the low wire fence to her left, performing a perfect Fosbury Flop and landing flat on her back on dry hard ground with an audible ‘HUMPH!’ Still winded by the impact, she crawled on her belly through a thicket of stinging nettles, fearing the rustling bushes around her would betray her presence. Reaching the fence after what felt like an age of squirming on her belly while holding her breath, she pressed her cheek against the rusting wire mesh and saw silhouetted by streetlights, a black statue of a man with a dead body hanging by its side. Paralysed by fear and still crushing the Walkie-Talkie’s transmit button in a painful grip to stop it from squawking again, she felt like she was in a Stephen King film, certain the monster stared straight at her before the thing shrugged and walked away. Franklin breathed for the first time since landing, heaving in great lungfuls of air as if she had been drowning.

Slumping in relief, she regained her composure quickly to clamber back over the fence. Adrenalin coursing through her veins, hoping the coast was clear, Franklin sprinted up the ramp to see where the boy had gone, praying she hadn’t lost him again. Then, reassured to have eyes on him and confident he was out of range, she whispered into the Walkie-Talkie, ‘Maurice?… Maurice?… Where are you? Maurice! I’ve got the bastard!’

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