Run: 2026-03-06-01KK1GFYW25DBFH3431DJR8FDQ

Molly crouched behind the privet hedge with the solemnity of a field marshal and the hat of a discount magician. Across the suburban garden, bunting flapped between apple trees, balloons bobbed like overeager sentries, and a cardboard pirate ship listed dangerously beside the trampoline. The children’s party was in full roar. Somewhere near the patio, a hired clown was losing an argument with a bubble machine. Bill lay beside her in the damp grass, peering through opera glasses he’d stolen from a woman at the races three summers earlier and never stopped mentioning. “It’s chaos,” he whispered, impressed. “Beautiful, sugar-fuelled chaos.” “It’s a fortress made of sponge cake and poor judgment,” Molly said. “Which is my favourite kind.” A shriek rose from the garden as a boy in a paper crown thumped another child with a foam sword. An adult in a sash reading HAPPY BIRTHDAY DAD attempted to intervene, tripped over a paddling pool, and vanished from sight. Molly nodded with professional respect. Bill lowered the glasses. “So we go in as what? Entertainers? Caterers? Divorced godparents?” Molly considered the party. “No one questions confidence at events like this. We go in as people who look as though they belong near a folding table.” “That’s not a disguise,” Bill said. “It is in Britain.” She opened her satchel and produced two fluorescent vests, a clipboard, and a roll of gold star stickers. Bill stared at the stickers. “What are those for?” “Authority,” said Molly. “No one argues with a woman handing out stars.” They slipped through the side gate just as the clown’s bicycle collapsed beneath him. All heads turned to the spectacularly folding circus professional, and Molly and Bill crossed the lawn untouched, moving with the serene purpose of minor officials. Bill stuck a star on a small girl’s jumper as they passed. She beamed up at him as if he had knighted her. “I don’t like how easy this is,” he muttered. “That means it’s going well.” Near the house, trestle tables groaned beneath crisps, sausage rolls, and an ambitious chocolate fountain listing like an oil rig in rough weather. Beyond the patio doors sat the real target: a mountain of brightly wrapped presents piled around a banner that read ESME TURNS 7! in glittering letters large enough to be seen from space. Bill inhaled sharply. “Would you look at that. It’s obscene.” “It’s organised,” Molly corrected. “And therefore vulnerable.” A woman with an expression of exhausted cheerfulness intercepted them. “Oh good, you’re the activity people!” Molly didn’t blink. “We are indeed. I’m from Interactive Parcel Solutions, and this is my associate, Bill.” Bill gave her a grave nod. “Afternoon.” The woman clasped her hands. “Wonderful. We’re running a bit behind because Kevin set fire to the candles before the cake was out, but if you could start whenever—” “We’ll need the gift area secured,” Molly said briskly, glancing at the presents. “Safety regulations.” “Gift area?” “Trip hazard,” Bill added, gesturing with the clipboard as if it had legal standing. “High incidence of ribbon entanglement.” The woman paled. “Oh lord. Right. Yes. What do we do?” “We remove them temporarily for inspection,” said Molly. “Immediate inspection,” Bill said. “Very immediate.” The woman hurried off toward the kitchen, already apologising to someone named Nana. Molly and Bill looked at the pile. Bill grinned. “You magnificent liar.” Molly hoisted the first armful. “Save your compliments till the getaway.” As they loaded boxes into two large black bin bags labelled PARTY WASTE, a pack of children thundered past, chasing the clown with what appeared to be a garden hose and revolutionary intent. Bill tucked a toy-shaped parcel under his arm. “One thing bothers me.” “What?” He nodded toward the glittering banner. “What if Esme notices all her presents are gone?” Molly slung the second bag over her shoulder and headed for the gate. “By the time she does, Bill, we’ll be halfway to Croydon pretending to be a recycling initiative.” From behind them came the mother’s voice, strained and desperate: “Can anyone here make balloon animals?” Bill winced. “Run.”