#

Chiswick, West London

Rod Houghton stood on his doorstep, breathing in the tang of cold air of this golden morning through his nostrils, his eyes roving around the street for people who should not be there.

Conditions were perfect today, here and in Leeds, according to the TV forecast. Good weather meant a good turnout. He took another gulp of air. He was not a twitchy man and had seen enough action overseas to have any residual nerves knocked out of him, but even he could sense his adrenaline pulsing through his veins as his mind raced through the day ahead.

Paper first, then the cafe for the final texts. He glanced at his watch. Within nine hours they would have another victory under their belts. Three in ten days. It was incredible. Britain had seen nothing like this – not since the days of the IRA’s mainland bombing campaign that he remembered as a child.

He’d spoken to the boss last night. Police were sniffing around DNA traces found at the hotel, but were no closer to identifying him. He had no criminal record, and no DNA stored on a police database. He was fine.

A white van streaked with city grime was parked outside the newsagent at the end of his road. The driver got out as he approached, carrying a parcel and computer tablet, and walked into the shop. Two Asian youths were loitering outside the doorway, one in a red hoodie, the other in an Arsenal top. Houghton gave them the once-over before he walked in.

The shop was owned by a second-generation Greek in his fifties or sixties. He didn’t mind Greeks too much, even if the stale spices and overripe foreign fruit in the shop offended his nose. The Greeks hated the Turks for a start, and an enemy of an enemy is a friend. He picked up the Herald and a pint of skimmed milk and handed over a fiver.

The front of the Herald made him smile inwardly. Enough is Enough it screamed in big bold type over a picture of three women in burqas. It’s time to ban the burqa ran the subhead underneath. Six months ago, the press would have been too scared to run that. But what a difference a few weeks made. He read on. The front-page editorial was calling for tougher immigration laws and for the Prime Minister to stand down.

He was walking towards the open door, his thoughts still on the front page, when he heard a woman’s panicked yelp from the pavement outside. He stepped outside to see a white woman in her fifties lying curled on the ground. The two Asian youths were standing over her – one was yanking on her handbag as coins, make-up and receipts tumbled and fluttered over the pavement towards the gutter; the other was lashing at her stomach with his foot. He didn’t make contact, but she recoiled, letting go of the bag and allowing the accomplice to snatch the bag. Both pelted down the street into a side alley. Houghton’s instinct was to give chase, to catch up with those wankers and give them a pasting they wouldn’t forget. But he held back. Not today. Not today of all days.