Run: 2026-10-27-01M5YEW5E0HW4XPV00WDWTGRNX

Molly unrolled the plan across the café table, pinning one corner beneath Bill’s tea and the other beneath a plate of offended toast. “That,” said Bill, “is a giraffe.” “It’s the community centre.” “It has hooves.” “Those are the emergency exits.” Bill leaned closer. The giraffe wore a party hat and had BOUNCY CASTLE written across its stomach in Molly’s meticulous handwriting. Around them, Saturday morning clattered pleasantly: cups, cutlery, and a waitress pretending not to listen. “Right,” Molly said. “Party starts at two. We arrive at one fifty as entertainers.” “We?” “You’re Marvellous Bill. I’m your assistant, Glitter.” “Why can’t I be Glitter?” “Because you cried when I put sequins on your balaclava.” Bill stirred his tea with the injured air of a man whose criminal genius had been repeatedly misunderstood. Molly tapped the giraffe’s left ear. “Presents go in the village hall here. At two twenty, during musical statues, you wheel in my magic cabinet. We load the gifts, cover them with a false bottom, and leave through the kitchen.” “And the children?” “Will be watching me saw you in half.” “No.” “It’s a metaphorical saw.” “It wasn’t metaphorical last time.” “You still have both eyebrows.” “Different eyebrows.” The waitress set down their bill and retreated at speed. Molly continued. “At two thirty, the clown arrives.” Bill frowned. “You’re the clown.” “I’m Glitter. The real clown is called Bongo. You’ll distract him.” “How?” “Tell him there’s a better party next door. Higher fee, fewer children, excellent parking.” “That sounds plausible.” “It’s my house.” Bill opened his mouth, then closed it. On the plan, Molly had drawn a small arrow from the kitchen to the getaway van. Beside it, in red ink, she had written: MIND THE PRIEST. “Why is there a priest?” “Christening party afterwards.” “And why is the van a helicopter?” “It isn’t. That’s Darren.” From the next table, an elderly woman moved her handbag closer. Bill sighed and folded his arms. “Fine. What’s my trick while you’re loading?” “Rabbit from a hat.” “We don’t have a rabbit.” “You have a hat.” “It’s a crash helmet.” “Then improvise.” Bill studied the guest list, turning it sideways as though the names might confess. His finger stopped beside one final, particularly ominous note. “One guest is bringing a present that ticks. Is that a problem?” “Only if it’s a bomb. If it’s a clock, we’re stealing it. If it’s a crocodile, you’re carrying it.” “Why am I always on livestock duty again?” At two o’clock, Marvellous Bill stood before thirty children in a sequinned waistcoat, holding a crash helmet and wishing he had become an accountant. Glitter gave him a dazzling smile from beside a cabinet suspiciously large enough to contain a bicycle, three games consoles, and the entire British rail network. “For my first miracle,” Bill announced, “I will produce a rabbit.” Nothing happened. A small girl raised her hand. “That’s a badger.” Bill looked down. The badger looked up. Behind him, Molly quietly revised the getaway time.