Run: 2026-04-24-01KQ0MQGQSGHY88E10QMZ1ESWC

Molly spread the blueprint across the bonnet of the van, weighing down one corner with a half-eaten sausage roll and the other with Bill’s mug of tea. Across the street, balloons bobbed above the garden fence of number 42, where shrieks, music, and the smell of jelly announced a birthday party in full riot. “Right,” Molly said. “Operation Pass the Parcel is a go.” Bill squinted at the house. “I still don’t like the name. Sounds like we’re delivering parcels.” “We are removing parcels.” “Wrapped parcels.” “Precisely. Seasonal ambiguity is our friend.” “It’s June.” Molly tapped the blueprint. “Focus. Presents are in the conservatory, visible through the side window. I counted twenty-seven. Possibly twenty-eight if that unicorn bag isn’t empty.” Bill adjusted his false moustache. It drooped at one end, giving him the expression of a disappointed walrus. “What if there are children in there?” “It’s a children’s party, Bill. There will be children everywhere. That’s why we’re disguising ourselves.” “As what, again?” “Entertainment.” Bill looked down at his costume: striped trousers, sparkly waistcoat, enormous bow tie. “I look like a magician who’s been banned from libraries.” “You look trustworthy to anyone under seven.” “I don’t trust anyone under seven. They ask questions.” “Then don’t answer them.” “They always ask the worst ones. ‘Why is your nose so big?’ ‘Why are you sweating?’ ‘Why did you put Tommy’s scooter in a bin bag?’” Molly folded the map with military precision. “No scooters. Too bulky. We take soft items, boxed items, gift bags, envelopes. In and out in eight minutes.” A roar went up from the garden. Someone had either won musical statues or declared war. Bill flinched. “They sound feral.” “They’re excited.” “They’re sticky.” “That too.” Molly opened the van’s rear doors. Inside were two laundry sacks, a balloon pump, three juggling clubs, and a cardboard sign reading MOLLY POPPINS AND BILL THE AMAZING. Bill picked up the sign. “Bill the Amazing what?” “Exactly. Mystery sells.” “I can’t juggle.” “You don’t need to juggle. You need to distract.” “With what?” “Your personality.” “That’s cruel.” Molly handed him a clipboard. “You go to the front door. Say the birthday entertainer sent you ahead to check plug sockets. I’ll slip around the side, enter through the conservatory, bag the presents, exit through the alley.” Bill’s eyes widened. “Why am I talking to adults?” “Because you have a clipboard. Adults respect clipboards. Clipboards are paper authority.” “What if they ask who booked us?” “You say Debra.” “Who’s Debra?” “There’s always a Debra.” Bill considered this, then nodded slowly. “That is true.” Across the road, the front door opened and a woman in a pirate hat carried out a tray of cupcakes. Behind her, a small boy painted green from forehead to chin charged after her, waving a foam sword. Bill whispered, “Molly.” “What?” “That child is armed.” “It’s foam.” “He doesn’t know that.” Molly shoved a laundry sack into his hands. “Courage, Bill.” “I became a thief to avoid children’s entertainers, not become one.” “You became a thief because you were sacked from a shoe shop for measuring people’s heads.” “It was one time, and that man had foot-shaped hair.” Molly paused, despite herself. “Fair.” They crossed the road separately. Molly drifted toward the side path, humming brightly. Bill marched to the front door, clipboard held like a royal decree. Before he could knock, the green child spotted him. “Are you the clown?” Bill stiffened. “No.” The child’s lip trembled. Bill panicked. “Yes.” Three more children appeared behind him as if summoned by weakness. “Do a trick!” one shouted. “I’m doing one now,” Bill said. “It’s called waiting politely.” “That’s boring.” “It’s advanced.” Molly, halfway along the side fence, glanced back. Bill was surrounded, his clipboard being inspected by a girl with pigtails and the cold eyes of an auditor. Good. The swarm had taken the bait. She reached the conservatory door. Unlocked. Amateurs. Inside, presents covered a table beneath a banner that read HAPPY 6TH BIRTHDAY, ARCHIE! Molly opened her sack and began loading: dinosaurs, robots, a suspiciously heavy box, three glitter bags, and an envelope marked FROM NAN. Outside, Bill’s voice rose. “No, you may not saw me in half. I haven’t brought the proper trousers.” A woman called, “Are you with Debra?” Bill replied, “Always!” Molly grinned and grabbed the unicorn bag. Then it sneezed. She froze. A tiny terrier’s head popped from the tissue paper, wearing a pink bow and an expression of professional outrage. It barked once. Every child outside went silent. Bill shouted, “Behold! The vanishing dog!” Molly clutched the sack. The terrier barked again. Footsteps thundered toward the conservatory. She sighed. “Eight minutes,” she muttered. “I really must stop hiring family.”