The Odds Get Even by Natale Ghent Page A

living-room window that his uncle had gone up to bed at last. Creeping along the walk to the kitchen door at the side of the house, he turned the handle, only to discover it locked.
    “Darn,” he cursed, sneaking to the front of the house. That door was locked too. Boney sighed. He had no choice but to scale the rose trellis.
    “Better just get it over with.” He resigned himself, pushing the Blaster into the waistband of his jeans before pulling himself up.
    But climbing down had been much easier than climbing up turned out to be. Boney grunted with the effort as he fought through the thorns and branches of the rose bushes. He’d nearly made it to the top, sneakers squashed between the wooden diamonds of the trellis, hands fumbling over razor-sharp thorns, when he heard a loud crack. And then another. And another and another until all at once the trellis tore away from the wall in a thunder of hollow applause. Boney shouted as he and the trellis and his aunt’s precious rose bushes came crashing to the ground in a horrible heap, tearing his sneakers from his feet, the Blaster emptying the rest of its water down Boney’s pant leg. Lying on the ground in a tangle of rose bushes and splintered trellis, Boney looked up to seeSqueak’s horrified face staring down at him from his bedroom window.
    In a moment, Squeak was standing over him in his blue flannel space pyjamas, pulling Boney free of the wreckage.
    “I told you the whole thing was prickly.”
    “Uuuuggghhhh,” Boney moaned, yanking the Blaster from his waistband.
    “Why didn’t you just ask me to unlock the door?” Squeak asked.
    Boney rubbed his head. His face and hands looked as though he had lost a fight with a dozen angry alley cats. “What are you talking about?”
    Squeak held up a large paper clip. “I can unlock any door. I’ve been practising.”
    “How would I have known that?” Boney answered indignantly.
    Squeak pointed at Boney’s sock feet. “Where are your sneakers?”
    “In that heap somewhere.” Boney waved the Blaster at the mound of rose bushes. “I’ll get them in the morning when I clean up this mess.”
    “What’s that on your pants?” Squeak timidly asked.
    Boney looked at the giant stain the Blaster had left on his jeans. “It’s water , Squeak! Geez! Can we get on with it?”
    Squeak nodded as he and Boney walked to the kitchen door. Squeak expertly unfolded the paper clip into a straight piece of wire and began jimmying the lock. Within seconds, the mechanism clicked and the door swung easily open.
    Boney shook his head incredulously. “Thanks,” he whispered, slinking into the house. “I’ll talk to you upstairs.”
    Boney snuck through the darkened kitchen to the hall, then up the wooden stairs to his room, careful to avoid steps three, seven, and nine—the ones with the loudest creaks. In his bedroom, he changed into his pyjamas and placed the Blaster beside his bed. He made a mental note to carry the water gun with him at all times—fully loaded—then uncovered the Tele-tube.
    “Mission accomplished,” he sighed with relief.
    “What about the rose trellis?” Squeak’s voice filtered back.
    “I’ll get up early tomorrow and fix it.”
    “And the Elvis costume?”
    “Delivered under the wire.”
    “Amazing,” Squeak marvelled. “I have to confess, I had my doubts as to whether you would make it. Still, your aunt is going to be furious when she sees her roses.”
    “Yeah, I know. But there are more pressing issues. I saw the ghost again.”
    “What?”
    “I went to the haunted mill while I was waiting for the cleaners—you know, Mr. Martini can barely see through those glasses. The ghost spoke to me.”
    “What? What did it say?”
    “Boney? Is that you?” his uncle softly called, opening the bedroom door.
    Boney threw the towel over the Tele-tube and leaned on the windowsill, trying to look casual.
    “Get to bed. I don’t want your aunt finding you up.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    His uncle