The Death of Hope: A Scolaris Mystery, #0.5

By Lou Collins

From the ashes of hope, a search for knowledge ignites.

 

Escape to the idyllic village of Gormsey, nestled on the picturesque coast of Asteria. But for Ted, this quiet haven holds a dark secret—one that will change his life forever. When his attempt to flee his abusive father ends in a shocking murder, Ted is thrust into a world of deceit and lies within his own family.

 

As his sister faces a grim fate, Ted must navigate treacherous waters to uncover the truth. But with trust crumbling and suspects emerging, he soon realises that no one is above suspicion. From supposed allies to his own kin, Ted must unravel the tangled web of deceit and bring the killer to justice before it's too late. 

 

But as he delves deeper into his family's dark past, Ted realises that the consequences of his actions may be more devastating than he ever imagined. Can he unravel the truth before it destroys his family?

 

Full of unexpected twists and turns, The Death of Hope is a gripping tale that reveals the origins of the man who would become the Custodian of the Great Library of Scolaris. Fans of new adult dystopian adventures will be enthralled by this first chapter, racing towards an inevitable confrontation with the truth.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BOLDFACE PRESS LTD
• Release date: Oct 4, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223614296

Book preview

Chapter one

Ted Dwyer watched his father beat Doris with a knotted length of hemp mooring rope. The scourge doubled up as a makeshift belt, ensuring it was readily available whenever the dark mood took him. The delicate girl cowered against the wooden deck of the houseboat. Clutching a knitted rag doll, she curled ever tighter into a ball as the blows rained down, but she couldn’t make a sound.

From his hiding spot in the tall, lush cord-grass, Ted flinched in time with the rhythmical thwack which drowned out even the harshest cries of the herring gulls overhead—driving his fingers deeper and deeper into the claggy soil of the salt marsh, each stroke biting into his soul. A metallic tang of blood mingled with the briny crust which lacquered his chapped lips.

At well over six feet tall, Bruce Dwyer was a mountain of a man. Barrel-chested, Herculean shoulders supported by bulging biceps. A body honed into a deadly weapon by over three decades of hauling in nets overflowing with the catch of the day. The fisher’s physical prowess was matched only by an enormous appetite for celebrating each bountiful haul with gallons of the local beer. Much to their dismay, Ted and his mother grew accustomed to the drunken rages that followed with increasing regularity.

Since the traumatic birth of his sister twelve years earlier, the beatings had notably intensified, but this was an unfamiliar experience. Father had never raised a hand to his daughter.

Vision blurring through eyes that grew wet, Ted forced himself to look. Burning every detail into his memory, fanning the embers of hatred until they exploded, destroying the few remaining qualms of conscience.

Enough was enough.

Someone needed to do something about Bruce.

As the man finally ceased the lashing, he staggered away from the veranda—no doubt in search of another drink.

Ted grimaced.

The plan pieced together during many sleepless nights might just work. And with dusk creeping toward him over the horizon, now was the perfect chance to put it to the test.

Chapter two

Following Bruce proved easy. In fact, Ted would happily have bet his last penny on predicting his father’s destination with pinpoint accuracy. Nevertheless, he needed to be sure and tracked him from a distance, keeping to the impenetrable blackthorn hedgerow that lined the three-mile dirt track to the village.

The late September sunshine had well and truly vanished by the time his father passed the signpost announcing their arrival in Gormsey. And despite it only being three o’clock in the afternoon, the blackened sky could easily have confused anyone into thinking it was the middle of the night. True to form, Bruce staggered straight to the first building in the village, which conveniently happened to be a pub.

The Rod and Hook was the type of establishment where you felt the need to wipe your feet on the way out. A proper spit and sawdust joint and second home to every fisher, man or woman, in a five-mile radius.

Ted stole a glance into the front window, through a thick scab of sea salt and grime; he could just make out his father’s bald head and hulking frame propped against the dimly lit bar. There were others he recognised too, Morten O’Halloran’s distinctive thatch of bright copper curls and Pat Robinson’s crooked hunchback.

So far, so good.

Bruce was unlikely to be going anywhere for hours, or