A Hollow Sky: A stylish thriller that will keep you guessing

1

OCTOBER

Dark. Dark. Dark. She’d always hated the dark. It used to scare her, but she’d been alone in the dark for so long now she’d almost got used to it. Almost.

She wasn’t actually alone, of course. There were often voices around her, outside the darkness. Mummy mostly. She always knew when Mummy was there, even before she spoke. Mummy always chatted to her these days. Telling her what was happening in the world, singing to her while she fixed her hair, saying how pretty she was—all the things she’d never said or done before the dark had come.

Some days, like today, the darkness was cold, too. It made it more difficult to breathe. Like icy water all around her again, creeping inside her, filling up her mouth and lungs. She had been floating in the dark for so long now. She was sick of it.

Shut up, silly. Don’t be such a baby.

She felt Mummy come in—just a small, faint light in the corner of her mind. Hello Mummy.

Hello my love.

Far away and right there. Bright and cheerful as ever.

Are you awake?

Always. And never.

Warmth suddenly, blossoming on her forehead. A kiss. She focussed on it, willing the heat to spread, wishing the light would grow and she could finally wake up. But the light faded again, as it always did, and the cold returned.

Someone else was there too. Sad. Broken. Tired. Mummy often brought people to visit her. People who needed her light. Whoever this was, was in a lot of pain. A woman, definitely. She was holding her hand now.

Can I help?

So much pain, spreading from her hand, up her arm and across her back. Up and down her spine like little electric shocks, or tiny needles stabbing at her.

This is too hard. I can’t do any more for you.

But she had to do more. She had to fix it. Mummy’s hand on her shoulder, giving her strength.

This woman’s pain was blue. White. Jagged and sharp. Stabbing at her. Slicing her. Pricking her skin. And she was fighting it with all her strength.

Don’t give up. Not long now.

She could already feel the warmth spreading down her neck, into her arm, towards her hand. It was happening.

There you go. All better.

And just like that, the warmth left her and the cold swallowed her up again. Back underwater. Back into the dark.

Night night.

This quiet, ordinary street in a coastal village in North Wales was as unlikely a place for a miracle as you could imagine. The sky was grey and flat, blending into bland pebble-dashed houses, drab net curtains. Even the broken concrete paving slabs were the same dull grey.

Jane Hewitt gazed at the front doors as they slid past her passenger window, half-counting the numbers. She had a nervous, excited tingle in the pit of her stomach. Was she being stupid? She didn’t think so. So many events, coincidences maybe, had come together to bring her here today. Call it fate. Call it divine intervention. Call it serendipity. Jane knew—absolutely, categorically knew—that this was God’s will.

Her husband, Ian, sighed as they reached a T-junction. The indicator clicked monotonously. She resisted looking at him, not wanting to give him any excuse to ask her again—as he had at least ten times already in the last few days—if she was sure she wanted to do this.

He didn’t share her faith. He only went to church because it made her happy, and if—when—she was gone, he would probably never go again. She wished it was different, but she understood. He’d lost what little faith he’d once had the day they’d been given her diagnosis. Two little words: Terminal Cancer.

She had tried to convince him that these things were sent to try them. That this was all part of a bigger plan. But she had seen it in his eyes. He no longer believed. It made her sad to know that he wouldn’t have faith as a comfort when she was gone. And that’s why she was here. That’s why she was sure she had to do this. Even if it was too late for her, she wanted Ian to believe again. Even for one day.

She winced as the car jolted over another drain cover. So much pain coursing through her, constantly challenging her strength. She hadn’t taken her full dose of pain relief today. She wanted her mind to be as clear as possible. For once, she wanted to feel everything.

They turned into a newish housing estate. Wider streets, with broad pavements framing neat front lawns. In one garden, a cheeky gnome was bending into a small pond with his bare bottom pointing at the street. It made Jane smile.

That must be the place, Ian said.

Jane looked ahead at a large bungalow, on the end of the cul-de-sac, and felt her stomach hitch. It was the house she’d seen on the website when she’d looked Megan Shields up. This is it. She let her eyes linger on the building, drinking in the detail, as Ian pulled up at the curb and climbed out.

The house was freshly painted, with a vibrant red door, wide and welcoming, at the end of a neat, paved pathway. A double garage stood separately off to the left. Two matching new model Range Rovers, black and elegant, were parked either side of a converted minibus. The bus was painted in soft blues and whites, blended to look like clouds, with pleated curtains framing its windows and the words God’s Gift – The Power to Heal emblazoned on the side.

Jane took a deep breath, forcing that niggling little voice down again. Was she right to challenge God’s plan for her? She had asked herself the question over and over. Finally, she’d come up with an answer she could live with: God wouldn’t have given Megan Shields the power to heal, and he wouldn’t have led Jane to discover her, if it hadn’t been part of His plan. This was a reward for her lifelong undying faith. This was His gift to her. One more night. That’s all she was asking for.

Ian opened her door and bent down beside her, the wheelchair angled against the side of the car. He looked tired. His eyes, usually so bright and smiling, now looked dull and sad. His thick, dark hair had a peppering of grey she was sure hadn’t been there six months ago. Even his arms, so lithe and strong from years of running and cycling, looked thinner.

It’s not too late to change your mind, he said.

She didn’t want to rake over the same arguments again. Not now.

You promised, she reminded him.

His judgement was wrong on this. She was sure. This was what she needed to do, and he had promised to support her. She wasn’t backing out now. He took her hands in his and looked into her eyes. Pain and love. She smiled beseechingly: You promised.

Ian sighed, lifting her gently, easily, as he had done so many times over the past months, and placing her into the wheelchair. He gave her shoulder a little squeeze as they set off up the path towards that wide red door.

A young man, handsome to the point of angelic, opened the door before they could reach it. His blonde curls bobbed as he half-bowed in greeting. His watery blue eyes danced happily across Jane’s face and his smile warmed her.

You must be Jane, he said, his voice smooth and soothing, deeper than she’d expected.

She smiled as he stepped behind her chair and took the handles, wheeling her over the threshold. Love and power emanated from the building, already wrapping her in its warm embrace.

Ian Hewitt tightened his grip as the young man closed his hand around the handle of Jane’s wheelchair. For just a moment, Ian resisted letting go. He caught the tiniest flash of defiance in those cold blue eyes. At odds with the soothing, affected voice this young man had greeted them with. When he conceded, the young man smiled at his tiny victory. As he wheeled her away, Ian couldn’t help but feel that Jane was being taken from him.

He knew he was letting his own prejudices cloud his judgement. While he had no evidence that Megan Shields was a fraud, he couldn’t help but voice his cynicism. He simply didn’t believe in faith healers. Jane had shut him down straight away. Megan Shields was different, she’d told him. She was special.

When he’d researched Megan, he’d been shocked. Not by the hundreds of glowing reports of incurable diseases and terminal conditions the girl had supposedly cured, but by Megan’s story itself.

Megan, aged eight, had been on a Sunday School trip to a holy site in North Wales when she had become separated from the group. By the time they found her, she was floating face down in a small pool of water in the ancient bathing chamber. They thought it was too late—that she had drowned.

Miraculously though, the little girl didn’t die. She even came round briefly in the hospital and spoke to her hugely relieved mother. Megan had declared it just hadn’t been her time to die—she still had things to do. Megan had fallen asleep shortly afterwards and, with her mother resting in a chair beside her, she’d slipped into a coma, and there she stayed.

As days turned into weeks, and months became years, young Megan’s condition remained unchanged. She had simply fallen asleep, and all doctors could do was wait and see if she would ever wake. Her mother, Anne, a single-mother of three, had spent every moment she could at her daughter’s bedside, praying for a change. Waiting for a sign that her little girl would come back to her. Promising to be a better mother if she could only have the chance.

Over time, Megan became something of a celebrity on the children’s ward. The girl who wouldn’t wake up. A real life sleeping beauty. Children on the ward would take it in turns to sit with her, playing with their dollies on the end of her bed, reading her stories in broken, stuttering little voices, or telling her about their own treatments, fears, and breakthroughs.

Anne’s mother, meanwhile, found comfort in prayer, her faith encouraged by a kind young priest who had moved to the village. Reverend Francis Rodwell would visit the hospital as a volunteer and bring flowers and gifts from well-wishers in the local community. He and Anne would talk for hours and struck up an unlikely friendship. According to Anne, it was he who had first opened her eyes to what was happening.

Anne had come from a religious family, but her own faith had slipped, and, even by her own admission, she had led a wild life. Until Megan’s accident. That’s when she’d started praying again. It had taken the Reverend Rodwell to point out that Megan’s affliction may serve a greater purpose than Anne had considered.

With each child who visited Megan, and later left the hospital cured of their ailments, Anne’s conviction grew stronger: Megan’s life had been interrupted so she could help others. And it wasn’t only children Megan helped. Soon, people from other wards would appear at the door, a small gift in hand and a gentle request to pray with Megan on their lips. How could Anne refuse them? It was God’s will, after all.

And it was Anne’s part in the whole enterprise that troubled Ian the most. He couldn’t understand how, as Megan lay trapped in her coma, her own mother could allow countless strangers to invade her daughter’s space, lay their hands on her and claim her gift had healed them. While Megan herself had no voice, no choice. What kind of mother would do that?

Ian had been even more appalled when he’d then discovered that Megan’s healings had become something of a business for her family. After three years in the hospital, Megan showed no signs of coming out of her coma, though doctors remained convinced that she would wake up. Her brain function was still normal, and scans showed she seemed to respond to the stimulation of company and conversation around her. And she certainly got plenty of that.

The Reverend Rodwell had taken it upon himself to run a fundraiser to help Anne buy a house suitable for Megan to come home to, whether or not she woke. The appeal had raised hundreds of thousands of pounds, which, coupled with the generous donations that satisfied visitors made to Anne’s purse in exchange for a little time with her daughter, meant that Megan could leave the hospital, and move into a specially designed room in a purpose built house, with round-the-clock care.

Over the next three years, Megan’s healings became a growing business. People flocked from around the world to see this special young girl, who was quietly becoming a young woman, and pray with her in the hope of healing themselves. The donations continued to roll in. Newspapers, magazines and television companies paid for exclusive stories. Generous benefactors left legacies to Megan in their wills.

It made Ian sick. He couldn’t stomach the idea that Megan’s mother was cashing in on her daughter’s condition, and using people’s faith to lure them to her side, with vain promises of hope, and miracle cures, in exchange for so-called donations. He smelled a scam. But then, even by his own admission, he was a huge cynic. Besides, Megan certainly had enough testimonials to support her mother’s argument that she could heal. Whether or not Ian believed it, Jane did, and it was one of the few things she had left to believe in.

Although he hadn’t wanted her to come, and he’d tried to talk her out of it several times, now they were here, he would keep his misgivings to himself. For her sake. After all, there was no financial obligation on them. What real harm could a little prayer do?

He reluctantly fell in behind the young man, hearing the squeak of the wheelchair tyres on the wooden floor as they moved up the broad hallway. The house was quiet. A faint smell of disinfectant—medical and clean—lingered beneath one of those musky room fragrances.

The unmistakable sound of a children’s cartoon, all American accents and loud music, carried from somewhere in the house. The lights were dim, the hallway sparsely decorated.

It reminded Ian of visiting his mother in the care home in the years before the Alzheimers took her. Noises off. A respectful hush. That same sense of clinical cosiness that always made him feel anxious about his own future.

He peered through the open doors left and right as they passed. A large kitchen, white and modern. A huge American-style fridge. As red as the door. Surfaces clean and clear. No evidence of ongoing family life.

Further down the corridor was a small lounge where two young children, eight or nine years old, sat side by side on a huge cream leather sofa. Brother and sister—twins by the look of them—their faces reflecting the technicolour glare of the television set in the corner. The girl looked up, eyes narrowed in a small frown, before returning her attention to the cartoon as her brother broke into a peal of laughter. Such a normal, happy sound. It jarred here.

A tall, elegant woman in her late thirties emerged from a doorway at the end of the corridor. Immaculately and expensively dressed, with perfectly coiffured hair and too much make up. Her posture seemed guarded though she’d spread her hands in a welcoming gesture. The smile on her lips did little to mask the hardness behind her eyes. She was wary. Ian wondered whether she could sense his discomfort. He smiled back at her, but her eyes were already fixed on Jane.

Welcome, she said, her voice tinged with a smoker’s rasp. I’m Anne. Megan’s mother.

She bent awkwardly forward to shake Jane’s hand.

Thank you so much for letting us come, Jane said. She sounded unnaturally cheerful. Nervous and excited, Ian realised. Anne looked at him as she straightened up, her smile frozen on her lips. He extended his hand over Jane’s shoulder, having to reach around the young man still holding on to Jane’s chair. Her handshake was limp and soft. Meaningless.

Megan’s ready for you, Anne said, directing her focus to Ian in that annoying way people do when they encounter a person in a wheelchair. It rankled every time. If Jane had noticed, she didn’t give any sign.

Great, she said. I’m looking forward to meeting her.

Anne’s smile twitched.

Good, she declared, her fingers fidgeting with the buttons on her jacket. Before we go in, though, I’ll need you to fill in some paperwork. Just for our records, you know?

Of course, Jane beamed.

Anne must have caught Ian’s frown.

It’s nothing to worry about, she said, dismissively. We like to keep a record of Megan’s visitors, so we can keep in touch. We’re all family in God’s eyes.

It was all Ian could do to stop himself rolling his eyes as he followed them into a small waiting room. A large wooden desk dominated. Two chairs. A water cooler. A small red sofa and a coffee table, littered with brochures.

The young man wheeling Jane moved one of the chairs aside and pushed Jane up to the desk.

Thank, you Simon, Anne said, sitting down behind the desk and clearing her throat.

She gestured for Ian to join them and, as he hesitated, Jane turned awkwardly in her chair to look at him. Her expression nearly broke his heart. Silently willing him to toe the line and not make a fuss. Just do what they ask so I can have this. He would do anything to make her happy. Especially now. He sat down beside her and took her hand in his, giving it a little squeeze.

Anne had been right, the paperwork was light. Ian filled in Jane’s name and their address, details of her condition and a contact number. There was a disclaimer at the bottom about healing not being guaranteed, which Ian dismissed as a statement of the obvious.

He handed Jane the pen and let her sign it herself. Her hands were so thin now. Her grip strength almost non-existent. He could see the bones and veins through her papery skin. It hurt him to see her labouring now over something which had once been so automatic.

Right, Anne said, tucking the paperwork into a folder. Shall we?

On cue, Simon stepped forward to open a set of double doors on the far side of the room, revealing a bedroom decorated in bright, childish colours. Ian stood up before the young man could come back, and turned Jane’s chair, wheeling her towards the door.

Simon hesitated, clearly uncomfortable with this part of his role being removed. Ian noticed the firm nod from Anne to her young helper. Let him do this. Simon smiled insincerely as they passed.

The room, though brightly decorated and full of youthful expression, felt creepy and oppressive. Macabre almost. Megan lay propped up on pillows, painfully thin and almost translucent white, eyes closed, hair in dark ringlets. Someone had applied a little colour to her cheeks, and Ian couldn’t help thinking she looked like a doll, dressed and painted and waiting to come to life. None of it could mask the tubes and drips feeding her, keeping her alive in ways that her body was no longer capable of. What kind of life was this for her?

Ian stopped, unable to walk further into the room. Jane looked up at him, her eyes full of questions and fear. Are you going to stop me? He shook his head. They’d been married long enough to know each other’s minds. He wouldn’t stop her, but he didn’t think he could be part of it.

I’ll just… he stuttered. I’ll just wait for you out here. Okay?

I’ll be fine, she replied, still reassuring him, even now.

He wheeled Jane across to Megan’s bedside, pausing long enough to see her face soften as she tentatively reached out and took the young girl’s hand.

He caught a strange look on Anne’s face when she realised he was leaving. It was the first time he had seen anything like genuine emotion in her eyes. She looked hurt. Not angry or sad, but hurt. She could obviously sense his cynicism and it clearly pained her that he didn’t believe in her daughter’s gift.

He shut the double doors behind him and retreated into the waiting room. As soon as they clicked shut, he questioned his decision. Should he at least try to be more supportive? He took a deep breath. No, he was right. Having him in the room would distract Jane. This was her thing. Her last hope. If he was honest, he knew he was reluctant to be there because he didn’t want to see the disappointment on her face when nothing about her condition improved.

He turned to the water cooler, poured himself a cup and downed it. Choral music started up from a set of speakers set high on the wall. Ian caught himself sneering. It was all so choreographed. Like those hideous New Age retreats, or massage parlours with whale song and incense, all designed to create the perfect mood. A placebo, rather than a real cure.

He’d better snap out of this negative funk before Jane came back out. She would need his support, not a smug ‘I told you so’.

He sat down on one of the sofas and glanced at the collection of leaflets and magazines on the coffee table—all of them either advertising a local church or promoting Megan’s work.

He picked