Sowerbutt's Mission

 

“I hope you are satisfied, Sowerbutt," Brendan Bracken snapped. "This is the first time I have been on a trolleybus and I can assure you it will be the last. Are they always this empty? I’ll get onto John Reith, the wastrel. Couldn’t run the BBC and useless as Transport Minister, never understood why the Old Man kept him on in Cabinet. Don’t upset the apple-cart, he always says. Bollocks, I say.”

“Tickets, please gents,” shouted the blonde clippie, who worked a regular shift each week for Polly.
Sowerbutt put his hand up as Bracken fished a fiver out of his pocket. The 30-something man winked at the conductress and handed her some silver coins. “Something for your pocket, Betty, we will be getting off in a couple of stops before any of your puffed-up inspectors pay a visit. Can you manage a bit of peace and quiet up here for a few minutes?”
Bracken frowned. “I’ll get to the point as I always do. I need you and your men to escort a certain gentleman from the green fields of Hertfordshire to Dublin in the next couple of days. Yes, I know, your favourite journey from Paddington to darkest Wales. Fishguard and then ferry across to Rosslare is the shortest route. Ferries are running most of the time, unless the U-boats are about. There’s a catch which is why I’m prepared to pay you another £5,000 in small notes.
“Last time we met Sorbay, I mentioned the Official Secrets Act of 1911. That still applies, particularly as the gentleman you are escorting is a Jerry who is kindly helping us out with a few matters."
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