On the pavement, opposite the Islamic Centre, was a small demonstration by the British People’s Party. A dozen people, mostly older, but a couple of younger men and women too, stood, staring from behind a wall of placards. They were all alike, stamped with the party’s logo, and each read, Britain for the British. It was a strangely quiet and static protest. None of the banners waved and there was no chanting, but the expressions of the people were intent with implacable hostility. All glared at the mosque, as if its temerity to even dare to exist was an affront to the very principles of civilisation, and the power of their resentment would be sufficient to see it turn to dust before them. From the passing cars came the odd supportive hoot of a horn, but there were many more obscene gestures as fingers waved angrily out of windows. One of the men walked over to Dan and held out a hand. He hesitated, then shook it. ‘Norman Kindle, BPP Regional Organiser,’ came a deep and confident voice.
