The Day I Was Erased
Page 19
Maxwell
I picked up the sheet and slowly opened it.
Thank you for everything, Maxwell.
It’s time I went home.
Reg
I took a deep breath in the silence and then I folded up the note and put it into my back pocket.
I walked over to the cabinet. The doors were open and the egg was there, lying beside the black hat. I closed the cabinet doors then went into the kitchen and put Reg’s mug back in the cupboard next to the tin of biscuits.
I opened the side door and shivered as I stepped out into the cold air. I turned to take a final look at the bungalow I’d come to know so well. I smiled to myself.
“Bye, Reg,” I said. And then I closed the door and headed home.
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Matthew likes sparkling clean surfaces, staying safe in his bedroom, and making notes about his neighbours. When a toddler goes missing, Matthew finds himself at the centre of the mystery. Can he work out what happened, even as his own secrets begin to unravel?
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In the dead of night, Nate and his mum run away to a tumbledown cottage in the middle of a forest.
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“Why can’t we stay with Grandma?” I asked Mum.
We sat in the car as the rain hammered down and stared at the dirty grey cottage that was lit up by Mum’s headlights. The image I’d pictured of a holiday we’d once had in a cosy, quaint cottage completely vanished. About thirty years ago this house was probably quite pretty, with its white walls and roses around the door. Now the walls were the colour of a muddy puddle and it looked like it was slowly being swallowed by blankets of thick, dark ivy. I didn’t recognize this place at all. The dirt track that we turned down from the main road must have been at least two kilometres long. Mum was right: this was really off the radar.
I didn’t want to go inside. I wanted us to turn around right now and go somewhere else.
“I thought it might be a bit untidy … but this?” said Mum, and she leaned forward and rested her chin on the steering wheel. “This is terrible! How has it been left to get in such a state?”
“We should go, Mum. I don’t like it here. Let’s go to Grandma’s.”
She ignored me again. Mum and Grandma had a big argument and hadn’t spoken since Granddad’s funeral, which was months ago now.
“Wait here, Nate, and I’ll go and find the key. This weather is probably making it look worse than it is. I bet it’s not so bad inside.”
She pulled her cardigan tightly around her neck then got out into the torrential rain and waded through the weeds to the porch door. She ran her hand along one edge of the roof and then went round to the other side out of sight.
I stared through one of the cottage windows. There was a faint yellow light coming from the corner of a room. The car window steamed up and I rubbed at it with my sleeve and squinted into the gloom but the glow had gone. I must have imagined it.
Mum appeared holding a large key in her hand. She tugged at the ivy on the porch and then fumbled with the lock and began to push at the door with her shoulder. She had to keep stopping to wipe the rain out of her eyes but after ten more shoves the door began to inch open and she squeezed through, tugging at it from the inside before beckoning me to join her.
I stared up at the ramshackle old house. Rainwater poured from a hole in the gutter above one of the windows, which made it look like it was crying. Mum waved me towards her again. She was splattered with mud and her hair was plastered to her face and she was gripping the side of the door as if it was helping to hold her up.
“I don’t want to be here,” I said under my breath, and then I picked up my rucksack and opened the car door.
Mum flicked a light switch in the lounge and a bare bulb dangling in the middle of the ceiling spluttered into life, giving off a feeble glow.
“Look, Nate. We have light!” said Mum, but I didn’t answer.
She made her way back to the front door.
“You wait here and I’ll get our bags.”
I wanted to run after her, shut the stupid, awkward door and get straight back into the car. The house looked like it hadn’t been cleaned for about a hundred years and there was a smell like something was rotting. In front of the stone-cold fireplace was a sofa that was probably quite squishy and comfortable fifty years ago, but now it looked like it had had its insides sucked out. Something moved in the gloom and I jumped. Sitting on one of the arms of the sofa was a scruffy brown chicken. It cocked its head at me, and blinked with a dark, round eye.
“What are you doing here?” yelled Mum, walking in and waving our two bags madly. “Get out! Go on. Shoo! This isn’t your home!”
The chicken gave a squawk and then did a half-hearted flutter up on to the windowsill and jumped through a square of broken glass. It huddled outside on the ledge, sheltering from the freezing rain as much as it could.
The sofa was covered in lots of grey lumps and it was only when I stepped closer I realized it was chicken poo, which probably explained the smell.
“We can’t stay here, Mum. Look at the sofa, it’s disgusting.”
Mum didn’t turn around. She just stood in front of the broken window, staring at the bird.
“There’s droppings everywhere. And there are probably rats and all sorts crawling around. And we haven’t even been upstairs yet. Where are we going to sleep? We can’t stay here – we’ve got to go somewhere else!”
The chicken sank its head into its body as far as it could, its eyes barely open as the rain and wind blew, ruffling its feathers. Mum’s fingers were clenched by her sides. She didn’t turn round.
“Mum? I said we’ve got to go! Let’s just get in the car and drive to Grandma’s, OK?”
She was saying something quietly to herself. Her eyes were wide and fixed on the chicken and she was shivering, her clothes soaked through.
“She just wanted a home, Nate. She didn’t mean to make a mess. She just wanted a little home to shelter in.”
Tears were running down her face but she wasn’t making any crying noises. I put my arm around her and patted her hand.
“It’s OK, Mum. It’s just a chicken.”
I looked out into the night-time, at the pounding rain and the silhouettes of dark trees.
Praise for THE GOLDFISH BOY
“A great cast of characters and an intriguing mystery – I loved it!”
Ross Welford, bestselling author of Time Travelling with a Hamster
“A bowlful of joy”
The Times
“Heart and humour, along with a strong message about the value of family, friends and facing fears … make this assured debut stand out”
Observer
“Both a genuine mystery and an emotionally charged examination of fear and loneliness, this is a terrific read with warmly engaging characters”
Daily Mail
“A tense story with characters drawn so exquisitely you will feel closely involved in the plot”
The Sun
Praise for THE LIGHT JAR
“I devoured The Light Jar whole and insist you do the same. Pure, breathtaking genius”
Maz Evans, bestselling author of Who Let the Gods Out?
“The Light Jar will secure her reputation as one of our most inventive writers for children of eight plus”
The Times
“Poignant and multi-layered”
The Observer
“Lisa Thompson brings bags of empathy to a deftly plotted tale”
The Guardian
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First published in the UK by Scholastic Ltd, 2019
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ectronic edition published by Scholastic Ltd, 2019
Text copyright © Lisa Thompson, 2019
Illustrations copyright © Mike Lowery, 2019
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eISBN 978 1407 18512 5
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