The Day I Was Erased Read online

  worked as a Radio Broadcast Assistant first at the BBC and then for an independent production company making plays and comedy programmes. During this time she got to make tea for lots of famous people. She grew up in Essex and now lives in Suffolk with her family.

  THE GOLDFISH BOY was one of the biggest-selling debuts of 2017 and was shortlisted for a number of prizes, including the Waterstones Children’s Book Prize. Her stunning second book, THE LIGHT JAR, was chosen as the Children’s Book of the Week in the Times, the Guardian and the Observer on publication.

  Also by Lisa Thompson:

  The Goldfish Boy

  The Light Jar

  For Dad

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Author

  Also by Lisa Thompson

  Dedication

  Chapter 1: Bins

  Chapter 2: Flamingo

  Chapter 3: Monster

  Chapter 4: Charlie

  Chapter 5: Tennis

  Chapter 7: Blood

  Chapter 7: Reg

  Chapter 8: Ball

  Chapter 9: Electricity

  Chapter 10: Egg

  Chapter 11: Gate

  Chapter 12: Kitchen

  Chapter 13: Running

  Chapter 14: Sofa

  Chapter 15: Morning

  Chapter 16: Investigation

  Chapter 17: Competition

  Chapter 18: School

  Chapter 19: Pool

  Chapter 20: Soup

  Chapter 21: Station

  Chapter 22: Waiting

  Chapter 23: Bex

  Chapter 24: Mum

  Chapter 25: Flowers

  Chapter 27: Tears

  Chapter 27: Shop

  Chapter 28: Library

  Chapter 29: Cabinet

  Chapter 30: Step

  Chapter 31: Clothes

  Chapter 32: Button

  Chapter 33: Man

  Chapter 34: Loser

  Chapter 35: Emily

  Chapter 36: Car

  Chapter 37: Angel

  Chapter 38: Tea

  Chapter 39: Grandfather

  Chapter 40: Box

  Chapter 41: Waving

  Chapter 42: Home

  Chapter 43: Office

  Chapter 44: Flat

  Chapter 45: Science

  Back Ads

  Copyright

  My dog Monster is the best in the world: FACT.

  Dad says he’s probably half-dog, half-mole because he’s so good at digging tunnels: mainly underneath our garden fence. He’s really round, so it’s a miracle he doesn’t get stuck.

  I watched him do it once. He sat on the flower bed and stared at the wooden panels, as if he was trying to work out how to tackle them, and then he began to dig. Loads of dirt flew from under his wagging tail and then he did this weird shuffling-along-on-his-stomach thing with his back legs flattened either side. The next second he was gone.

  When he escapes, he always heads to the same place: Mrs Banks’s front garden. He charges at her bins, knocks them over and then, like a big furry vacuum cleaner, snaffles everything up. And I mean everything. He threw up a pair of knickers on to the lounge carpet once and Mum wasn’t sure if she should wash them and take them back to Mrs Banks. I pointed out that if they were in the bin in the first place then she obviously didn’t want them, did she?

  Mrs Banks caught Monster going through her bins for the third time this week. She arrived on our doorstep with him tucked backwards under her arm. His tail was wagging round and round, like it does when he’s happy, and she had to put her head to one side to stop it from hitting her in the face.

  “You do realize that this animal is completely out of control, don’t you, Mrs Beckett?” she said. Mum was a bit flustered because she’d been in the middle of an argument with Dad when she answered the door. Monster stopped wagging and began to wriggle, but the more he wriggled the more Mrs Banks gripped on to him.

  “He’s been going through my bins again. And he left a ‘present’ on my lawn.”

  “A present?” said Mum, rubbing her forehead.

  “Yes, Mrs Beckett. A present. The foul, smelly, disgusting kind.”

  Monster’s tail wagged again as if he was showing us all where the “present” had come from. I snorted and Mrs Banks shot a look at me. There was a high-pitched yelp as she tightened her grip around my dog even more.

  “You shouldn’t be holding him like that!” I shouted. “He doesn’t like it. You let him go right now, you mean old … cow!”

  “Maxwell!” said Mum.

  Mrs Banks’s eyes went so wide I thought they were going to fall out of her head.

  “Are you going to let your son … your child talk to me in that way?”

  Mum looked at me and opened her mouth but nothing came out. It was as if she didn’t have a clue what to say. Monster’s tail had stopped wagging now and he began to whine. I jumped off our step and tried to grapple him out of Mrs Banks’s arms.

  “You’re hurting him! Let go of him! Let go of him, now!”

  Mrs Banks let out a squeal. “Oh! Get off! Get off me you … you horror!”

  “Maxwell! What has come over you?” cried Mum, pulling me back by my shoulder. Monster dropped to the floor with a yelp. He gave himself a quick shake then trotted inside as if nothing had happened.

  “I’m so sorry, Mrs Banks. Maxwell isn’t usually like this.”

  Mrs Banks swept her fringe out of her face.

  “I beg to differ, Mrs Beckett. Your son is a thug and a beast. I know it, the school knows it and, I’m pretty sure, you know it. I suggest you get that dog and your son under control, or I’ll inform the authorities.”

  She turned on her heel and stormed off down the pathway and through the space in the wall where the gate used to be. Mum closed the door, taking a deep breath. I knew she was about to have a go at me but Dad started yelling from the kitchen:

  “Amanda?! Have you been at my chicken pasta? Taking the sticky note off doesn’t mean it’s yours!”

  Mum gritted her teeth then stormed off down the hallway.

  “No, Eddie! I haven’t touched your flipping pasta!”

  I huffed. My parents had this stupid arrangement where they each bought their own food and put sticky notes on what was theirs. If they thought the other one had eaten something that didn’t belong to them, they went nuts. My sister Bex and I didn’t use labels; we just ate whatever Mum or Dad cooked for us. I hated those sticky notes. I hated them nearly as much as I hated Mrs Banks for hurting my dog.

  Mum and Dad had a massive row that night. One of their worst. I was trying to go to sleep but I could hear them through the bedroom wall shouting at each other.

  I wanted to go into Bex’s room and sit it out with her, like we used to do when we were little during a thunderstorm. Bex would never let me in her room now though. She’s fifteen and a total nerd. She’s even got a poster on her wall with the names of all the Kings and Queens of England on it. I mean, who does that? Why doesn’t she have a pop group or a film star or something a normal fifteen-year-old girl would have? Still, I’d have rather been in her room than on my own listening to them argue.

  Mum and Dad shouted about Monster and Mrs Banks and then turned to me. They were blaming each other for all the trouble I kept getting into at school. I wrapped my pillow around my head and tried to doze off until finally, at about midnight, I heard the front door slam. I sat up and listened as Dad’s van started and sped off down the road. I relaxed a bit then. Dad just drives round and round until he’s calmed down, and he comes home when we’re all asleep.

  I pulled the duvet over my head and curled up into a ball. If Mrs Banks hadn’t knocked with Monster under her arm then there wouldn’t have be
en all that shouting. It was all Mrs Banks’s fault. As I drifted off to sleep I thought of a way to get my revenge.

  The pink flamingo on Mrs Banks’s lawn was looking at me funny. Its black, staring eye didn’t move as I crouched down in the corner of the garden.

  I walked past Mrs Banks’s house every day on my way to and from school and the tall, plastic flamingo had appeared beside her pond about a month ago. Mrs Banks was in her garden most days, admiring it or moving it into a slightly different position. I wouldn’t be surprised if she actually talked to it. Well, that stupid bird was going to get it.

  A prickly bush beside me began to shake and a wet nose emerged from the undergrowth and sniffed the air.

  “Monster! How did you get out again? Keep down. She’ll skin you alive if she gets hold of you, you do know that, don’t you?” Monster headbutted me on my side and I rubbed his neck. His bottom wiggled madly as his tail propelled round and round.

  I stared back at the flamingo and held on to the half-piece of brick I’d found in our back garden.

  “Who would buy something so ugly, eh, Monster? That flamingo is the most disgusting thing I’ve ever seen.” He licked the back of my hand and I wiped the stringy, sticky goo on to my school trousers.

  “In fact, the whole garden is hideous,” I said. “Look at it!”

  There were stepping stones from the front gate to the door so there was no risk that any visitor would walk on her precious grass. Not that I’d ever known her to have visitors. No one called at Mrs Banks’s house for a cup of tea or to see how she was doing. However, plenty of people stopped as they walked by to gawp at the garden. Not because it was beautiful or full of tropical plants or anything, but because it was so … cheesy. Dotted amongst the bright-coloured flowers were a family of concrete squirrels wearing top hats, seven pixies in various gymnastic poses, an old man with a big fat tummy pushing a tiny wheelbarrow and a plastic wishing well. The pink flamingo was her latest purchase and only this morning I’d watched her wipe some invisible dirt off it as I’d walked to school. It was clearly her new favourite thing.

  I held tightly on to the brick and looked at the windows of Mrs Banks’s bungalow. She had blinds in her windows like the ones you get in offices – the vertical kind, in a horrible, dirty green colour. They were all closed.

  “Right. Are you ready for this?” I said. Monster did a deep sigh next to me then began to lick his bum. He always does that when he gets bored.

  “OK,” I said as I stood up. “Three, two, one…” I twisted the brick around in my hand, then took a shot…

  Now, what I intended to do was quite different to what actually happened. What I intended to do was to knock the bird over and maybe give it a bit of a dent in its stupid plastic head. It might not sound like much but for Mrs Banks, finding her brand-new flamingo lying on her perfect lawn would have been enough to send her into a total meltdown.

  But what actually happened was this:

  The piece of brick flew out of my hand and spun around as it hurtled towards the bacon-pink bird. I watched with my mouth open as I waited for it to reach its target. And reach it, it most certainly did. It not only hit the flamingo, it took its head clean off with one almighty CRACK!

  The plastic head somersaulted into the air and landed on Mrs Banks’s doorstep like some sick parcel delivery. The decapitated body stayed exactly where it was, its skinny legs still rooted into the ground.

  “Oops,” I whispered. I slowly backed away towards the low fence. The vertical blinds began to twitch.

  “Come on, Monster. We’d better run,” I said. I grabbed my school bag and clambered over the fence while my dog tried to squeeze through a tiny gap. He’d managed to get in that way, but now he was struggling to fit through. He was stuck.

  “Pull yourself, Monster!” I said as he just stood there, wagging his tail at me. “We’ve gotta go!”

  I was about to jump back over the fence and push his bum through when he did one more strain and burst out on to the pavement. He gave himself a shake then looked up at me as if to say, “Right. What next?”

  I began to laugh as we ran. A headless flamingo! Right there in her garden! It couldn’t have gone better. She would probably explode from anger. She’d open her front door, see the head lying there on her doormat and erupt like a fiery volcano. We turned the corner and slowed to a walk as we got closer to home.

  “We’d better keep our heads down for a bit now. Just in case she suspects. She’s going to be so mad,” I said.

  I turned up our garden path and let myself in, throwing my bag on the stairs and kicking the door shut behind me. Monster trotted off to the kitchen to check if anything had appeared in his food bowl.

  “Mum? The printer’s run out of ink and I need to get my project … oh, it’s you.”

  My sister, Bex, appeared at the top of the stairs. She crossed her arms.

  “Have you been in a fight again? Mum’ll go mad.”

  I looked down at my school uniform. My shirt was hanging out of my trousers and ripped at the side where I’d caught it on Mrs Banks’s fence. My shoes were brown from mud, rather than the regulation black, and my tie was wrapped around my left wrist. I hated wearing a tie. All in all, I looked pretty normal.

  “You do know you’ll be grounded again, don’t you?” said Bex, stomping down the stairs and pushing past me.

  “I haven’t been in a fight,” I said, following her to the kitchen. “I’ve actually been very busy teaching Mrs Banks a lesson.”

  Bex ignored me and began rummaging through the kitchen drawers.

  Mum and Dad were both out so the house was quiet for once. I opened the fridge and tutted when I saw the fluttering of yellow sticky notes. There was one attached to nearly every item of food or drink with a name written on it. Some said Amanda and some said Eddie. On a bottle of white wine there was one sticker that read: Amanda’s. DO NOT TOUCH THIS UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES.

  My parents didn’t share anything any more. I took a bottle of Coke that didn’t have a sticker on it, which meant Bex or I could have it.

  “Why don’t they just have two fridges? Surely that would be better than all those stupid labels,” I said, slamming the door.

  “Maxwell, do you have any idea where the printer ink cartridges are? I need some urgently,” said Bex, opening another drawer.

  I took a big swig of Coke. “Oh yeah! I do as it goes,” I said.

  Bex turned to me. “Fantastic! Where are they?”

  I took another gulp, held up my hand, and then:

  “YURRRPPPP.”

  I let out the loudest belch I could. Bex huffed.

  “You are a disgusting human being. Do you realize that, Maxwell Beckett?”

  I laughed as I took a bag of crisps out of the cupboard. I pulled off the sticky note that said Eddie on the front and binned it. Dad wouldn’t mind me eating his crisps. It was only when Mum ate them that he had a meltdown. I shoved a handful into my mouth as Bex searched through a cupboard.

  “Are there any in your room?” she said. “Please, Maxwell. I want to print off my Persian Empire project.”

  I didn’t even know what that was but I was pretty sure it was something she had done “for fun” rather than for homework. Like I said before, my sister is weird.

  I pretended to think where the ink cartridges could possibly be, by putting my head on one side and tapping my chin with my finger.

  “Let me see… I think they might be … erm… No. No idea, I’m afraid,” I said, showing her a mouthful of mashed-up crisps.

  Bex groaned and turned away.

  “Urgh, you’re so disgusting,” she said. “Why were you even born?”

  I grinned to myself then screwed up the crisp packet and threw it in the bin.

  Monster and I have a really special bond. Really special. When he’s not eating or sleeping or licking his bum, he is usually right beside me, following me around. He’ll look up at me with his big brown eyes and I’m pretty sure he understands
that it’s because of me that he’s alive today. That’s right: I, Maxwell Beckett, saved Monster’s life.

  It all happened on my walk home from school about a year ago. I had detention again, which you could see as a bad thing, but it was actually a good thing because it meant I was in the right place at the right time. I’d had a lot of detentions that term already: for talking back to the teachers, wearing the wrong uniform, not doing my homework, setting off a fire alarm, and telling everyone that Charlie Geek was moving to Dubai. I was so convincing on that one that he got called to the head teacher’s office to be asked why his mum hadn’t spoken to the school about it. Charlie’s my best mate and although he got a bit upset to start with, he found it funny in the end. I think he did, anyway. For this particular detention I was kept behind because I’d put the class’s maths books in the canteen bin – which was a lot easier to do than you’d think…

  After maths (which was probably all about angles or something else that was a complete waste of time) the bell went and Mr Gupta told us to put our books on his desk on our way out so that he could mark our homework.

  I hadn’t done mine. And I hadn’t done it the week before either. Not doing my homework wouldn’t usually bother me but I knew that this time it would mean a phone call home to Mum and Dad. And that would mean another big argument. But as I put my book on the top of the pile there was a CRASH in the corridor. Mr Gupta rushed out to see what had happened and I was the last one left in the room. Without really thinking about it I grabbed all of the books and stuffed them into my bag.

  The corridor was chaos. One of the science teachers had dropped a tray of jars and test tubes and there was glass everywhere. Mr Gupta helped the teacher pick up the pieces while Charlie Geek took it upon himself to form a “human shield” to stop anyone walking through it.

  “Stand back, everyone! There’s glass. GLASS!” he shouted, like it was an unexploded bomb or something. He’s a bit of an idiot sometimes.

  I worked out I had approximately three minutes to get rid of the books and make it to my next lesson, so I legged it to the cafeteria where they have the biggest bins. In just over seventy-five minutes, everyone would be scraping their lunch plates all over the books and Mr Gupta would never know I hadn’t done my homework. Perfect.