The Harp and The Dagger

Chapter 2

Bentley Productions and ITV own all recognisable Ultimate Force characters. All original plotlines and characters are my own.

Paddy O'Bryan grinned. A surreptitious glance over the shoulder indicated the tail was still in place. "Not exactly top notch are ye lads?" the soft Irish brogue muttered. A great Rugby fan, Paddy was looking forward to this match. March 12th 2011. Wales v Ireland. 2010/2011 season of the annual Six Nations Rugby tournament between England, Wales, Scotland, Ireland, France and since the 2000 season - the last of the old Five Nations tournament - Italy. The game would be floodlit with the roof open - Paddy glanced up and smiled at the optimism of whoever made that decision for an evening - a glance at the wrist 16:50 ten minutes to kick-off - game. Not the play-off for the ultimate goal - The Grand Slam - that it had been on two recent previous occasions, but still promising to be a good game. Wales had achieved that particular goal twice in eight years, and Ireland once and it was Paddy's fervent hope that they could do so again. However, even if Ireland were to lose, Paddy could take comfort that Ireland had taken revenge for Wales in having beaten the auld enemy. Paddy chuckled at the old euphemism for the English side. Hence the calculated risk taken that a short trip to Wales would not cause any long-term harm.

The concerns were real. For the last six years, since being recruited in Dublin University in fact, Paddy had been an active member of the Irish Republican Army, and had been instrumental in several of what the IRA blithely referred to as "actions" on the mainland UK, and abroad. So the purely personal jaunt to Wales was not without risk. Indeed almost as soon as setting foot on the shore at Holyhead, the first team of what Paddy assumed to be Special Branch slipped into place, and followed as they were led by the nose along the 200 miles of A and B class roads linking the main port of Anglesey with the national capital of Wales, Cardiff.

An involuntary laugh broke through remembering the consternation caused in the following party at the breaks in the journey, first at the appropriately named "Brigand's Inn" at Mallwyd (lunch) and latterly at the Vulcan Arms Inn, just short of Newbridge (call of nature). Every sudden stop must have made the poor buggers think they'd been spotted. Needless to say, a further onslaught of panic ensued when it became obvious where Paddy was going, as none of the trail team had tickets for the match, so contact would be lost once Paddy entered the Millennium Stadium. The reverie was broken by a voice;

"Look butt, you might have all day, but the poor sods behind you want to get inside before the final whistle!"

Paddy grinned and stepped forward, proffering the prepaid ticket. "Sure and it's lucky I'm not an American isn't it?" The broad smile brought a laugh from the ticket vendor. True enough, the Welsh custom of calling a friend "butt" or "butty" might not go down so well with an American audience, to whom the word "butt" might well have given the impression that the vendor was calling them an ass.

Ticket punched, Paddy pushed through the turnstile and entered the stadium. Glancing down at the ticket, Paddy noted that for once the entrance did correspond pretty well to the seat position, Gate 3 from Westgate Street, block L9. Not having been to Wales before Paddy had no idea where that related to the pitch layout, but followed the signs and directions given. Upon emerging back into the light Paddy gasped. Block L9 was right above the pitch-side tunnel where the players would soon be running out. Prime position in the middle of the field. Something clicked and Paddy reached into an inner pocket and withdrew an envelope given by Brian shortly before the ferry left County Cork. Opening the envelope Paddy's smile widened. The content was a single piece of paper with two words in Brian's handwriting - Happy Birthday! "I wonder how he knew it was my birthday?" Paddy relaxed and sat back to wait, not long now, with the band of the Royal Welsh Regiment coming out onto the field. As usual the Goat Major's charge was not exactly in awe of its' surroundings, but behaving well enough. The crowd rose to their feet, belting out the old favourites, Men of Harlech - the anthem of the regiment, Sospan Fach and even "Dallalio", sung to the tune of Delilah, and penned after the famous victory of the Welsh at Twickenham, spoiling England's hopes of a Grand Slam to end the 20th Century.