The background noise died away. All eyes were now on the food line and on the man at its head.

‘There’s no different spoon. Same for everyone.’

The answer came from the last of the servers. The tallest of the three by a head, he was a large man with a face that could not be the result of a peaceful life. It carried subtle scars, hints of long years of violence. Hints that became a statement thanks to his flattened, broken nose.

He was the very stereotype of a fighting man. And yet he was not the most intimidating side in the exchange.

‘That spoon was in the pork. Find a different one.’

The speaker was not as tall as the server. Nor was he as wide. He did not shout. He did not even put down his tray. But then he did not need to. Intensity sparked off him like so much electricity. His even, cold tone was clear: carry on down this route and there will be consequences.

Mansour took one step outwards, so he could peer around the second man in line. He wanted a clearer view.

‘You know the rules,’ the speaker continued. His voice was now lower. Flatter. Somehow worse. ‘That spoon touched the pork. That makes it haram. Use a different spoon.’

Mansour’s eyes were fixed on the speaker. A light-skinned black man, perhaps six feet tall. His long beard and the taqiyah he wore on his head were a statement of his religion, but otherwise he was dressed like everyone else. In a thick, grey, two-piece track suit, which made it difficult to gauge his build.

From what Mansour could see, the man was no powerhouse. Sure, he looked fit. But there were far more imposing men within touching distance.

But his intimidating presence had nothing to do with his physicality. It was the forcefulness of his lowered voice that had brought silence to the wing. Coloured by a thick South London accent, it was the voice of a man who would not be denied.

‘Change the fucking spoon.’

The stand-off lasted a few seconds more. Until, as Mansour had anticipated, the server gave way. As the noise of the wing increased back to its previous level, a second, non-haram spoon was found. The speaker’s halal meal was dished onto his plate and, without another word, he stalked away. To join a group of three other bearded men, on a table by themselves.

‘You’ll be wanting that spoon too, yeah?’

The question came from close to Mansour’s ear. From the man ahead of him in the queue. Mansour had not expected to be addressed and so it caught him off guard.

‘I don’t . . . sorry?’

‘You’re a Muslim, ain’t you?’

Mansour looked at him for a moment, surprised by the man’s friendly tone.

‘Erm, yes. Yes, I am. But . . .’

Mansour stopped himself. He had been about to say something about his own looser adherence to Islamic Law. But he remembered some advice given to him by Michael Devlin that morning.