Run: 2026-07-09-01KX402PVNKNDTFJAHJHB1Y0MF

Molly lay flat on the roof of the community hall, peering over the gutter at a forest of balloons tied to the front gate. “I’m telling you, Bill, this is our cleanest job yet.” Bill adjusted his woollen cap, which had “WORLD’S BEST GRANDAD” embroidered across the front in glittery silver thread. “You said that about the pharmacy.” “The pharmacy was clean.” “We left with three pounds of cough drops, a cardboard standee of a pharmacist, and your eyebrow stuck to a security camera.” “That was an unfortunate adhesive issue.” Below them, a woman in a princess costume guided a stream of shrieking children through the front doors. Each child carried a wrapped present, some almost as large as themselves. The hall windows glowed with coloured lights. A banner read HAPPY BIRTHDAY, ARCHIE! in letters that appeared to have been inflated by a furious clown. Bill squinted. “Remind me why we’re robbing a six-year-old.” “Because six-year-olds receive premium loot. Remote-control cars. Game consoles. Vouchers. Possibly jewellery, if his relatives are weird.” “He might get socks.” “Then we steal the socks too. Diversification.” A tremendous cheer erupted inside. Molly ducked instinctively. Bill did not duck, because he had become distracted by a tray of sausage rolls visible through the window. “Focus,” Molly hissed. “I am focused. I’m focused on the possibility that criminals have dietary requirements.” “You ate before we came.” “I ate a banana.” “You had two bananas, a pork pie, and an entire packet of custard creams.” “That was preparation.” Molly opened her canvas bag and laid out the tools of their trade: a lockpick set, a roll of duct tape, a small flashlight, and a plastic dinosaur mask. Bill picked up the mask. “What’s this for?” “Disguise.” “It’s a triceratops.” “Exactly. Nobody remembers a triceratops.” “They remember the horns, Molly.” “Fine. You wear it.” Bill held it against his face. “I look ridiculous.” “You always look ridiculous. At least this makes it tactical.” Inside, music began to thump. The muffled voice of an entertainer boomed, followed by the sound of children screaming with joy or terror. Bill glanced toward the side door. “What’s the plan?” “We go down the drainpipe, enter through the kitchen, cross the corridor, locate the present table, load the bag, and leave through the fire exit.” “And if somebody sees us?” “Act like parents.” Bill stared at her. “I don’t know how parents act.” “Say things like, ‘Where’s your coat?’ and ‘Stop licking that.’” “I can do that.” They climbed down. Molly moved with the elegance of a cat burglar, assuming the cat burglar had been wearing a leopard-print jacket and boots with flashing heels. Bill descended more slowly, pausing halfway when his cap snagged on a bracket. “Help,” he whispered. “You’re being defeated by a drainpipe.” “It’s got me by the grandad.” Molly yanked him free. They landed beside a wheelie bin just as the kitchen door swung open. A teenage volunteer emerged carrying a black rubbish bag. Molly grabbed Bill’s arm and shoved him behind the bin. The volunteer tossed the bag into the bin, then froze. “Did that bin just say ‘ow’?” Molly coughed loudly. “No.” Bill, muffled beneath the lid, said, “Stop licking that.” The volunteer blinked, then backed away. “Right. I’m taking my break.” Molly lifted the lid. “See? Parent behaviour.” They slipped into the kitchen. The room smelled of icing, hot dogs, and the unmistakable panic of adults responsible for forty children near fizzy drinks. On the counter sat a cake shaped like a pirate ship, complete with tiny plastic cannons. Bill reached for a cannon. “Don’t touch the cake.” “I’m not touching the cake. I’m inspecting the maritime detailing.” From the hall came the entertainer’s voice. “And now, children, it’s time for the magic show!” Molly smiled. “Perfect. Everyone will be distracted.” They hurried into the corridor and found the presents piled beneath a table covered in a blue cloth. Boxes, bags, ribbons, bows. Enough loot to fill Molly’s canvas sack twice over. Bill crouched beside a large box. “This one’s heavy.” “Take it.” “It says ‘Archie, from Nan and Grandad.’” “Take it faster.” Bill began loading presents. Molly worked beside him, efficient and ruthless, until she picked up a small, lumpy parcel wrapped in newspaper. “What’s that?” Bill asked. She read the label. “‘To Archie. Love Mum.’” For a moment, the corridor seemed quieter. Inside the hall, children gasped at a trick. Someone shouted, “The rabbit’s in your trousers!” Bill looked at the parcel. “Could be anything.” “Could be homemade.” “Homemade things are often expensive in emotional terms.” Molly sighed. “We leave the mum present.” “And the grandad one?” “We’re not running a charity.” A door opened at the end of the corridor. A little boy in a pirate hat stood there, holding a juice box. He looked from Molly to Bill, then at the dinosaur mask dangling from Bill’s hand. “Are you with the magician?” he asked. Bill froze. Molly smiled brightly. “Yes.” The boy nodded. “Cool. Is he going to make my presents disappear?” Bill slowly lifted the sack. Molly stamped on his foot. “No,” she said. “He makes boring things disappear. Like vegetables. And tax forms.” The boy considered this. “Can he make my dad disappear?” “Temporarily,” Molly said. Bill whispered, “Molly.” “What? He asked.” The boy grinned. “Best party ever.” Then he ran back into the hall. Bill stared after him. “We need a new line of work.” Molly hefted the bag onto her shoulder. “Fine. We’ll steal from adults.” “Weddings?” “Weddings.” Bill nodded. “More jewellery.” “And no children.” From the hall came a voice: “Where are the presents?” Molly grabbed Bill’s sleeve. “Run.” They bolted through the kitchen, out the side door, and into the night, pursued by the distant screams of forty children discovering that the magician had performed his greatest trick without even being invited.