Free Merely Players by J. M. Gregson Page A

were allowed to remain, on condition that they conducted themselves in an orderly manner.
    Most of these men – there were no women in the group – were known to Peach from previous confrontations; some of them had convictions for affray in the constant frictions between white and Asian youths in the town. They were no more pleased to see DCI Peach on the platform than he was to see them filling a group of seats at the side of the hall and conferring with each other about how they could best make mischief.
    For twenty minutes, things went smoothly. Tucker gave a surprisingly succinct summary of the policing of this predominantly Muslim area of the town and outlined some of the problems. Many of these arose when male police officers had to deal with female Muslims, particularly when the wearing of the Burka made communication difficult and led to suspicion on both sides. There were career opportunities for Asian police officers, who were desperately needed not only in Brunton but in most urban areas of the country.
    The National Front youths had grown increasingly impatient during these exchanges. A young man with a union jack on his tee shirt and tattoos on his forearms now called out, ‘These buggers are too busy collecting welfare benefits to work for a living in the police!’
    A woman town councillor had the figures ready to refute a charge she had obviously met many times before. She quoted figures to show that among Asian males of working age there was less unemployment than among other ethnic categories and that relatively few Asians were receiving council tax support.
    It was when the young man’s neighbour was frustrated by this calm statistical refutation that he shouted, ‘They’re all on the fucking fiddle!’ Counter-shouts arose and chaos threatened.
    Peach rose to his feet and waited for the relative silence which eventually fell. He looked with undisguised disgust at the group who had come to disrupt this meeting. ‘Some of you still purport to be Christians. They at least should recall their leader’s direction that it should be those without sin who cast the first stones. I recognize in your group at least three faces who have been prosecuted for falsely claiming benefits.’
    The group looked at each other in confusion. There were mutterings about ‘bloody Peach’ and worse. Then the youngest of the group, a pimply youth not long out of school, glared at the rest of the hall and said, ‘These bloody people make no fucking attempt to integrate!’
    A hand went up at the other side of the room. A small, elderly white woman whom neither Peach nor Tucker had noticed before rose to her feet. Percy noticed her now, not least because his new wife was sitting beside her, looking up with consternation at her mother. Agnes Blake was seventy, but no more afraid of speaking her mind than she had ever been. ‘One of the very first Pakistani visitors to this town was certainly prepared to mix. His name was Fazal Mahmood.’
    There was bafflement among the mass of her audience, though a few of the bearded Muslim elders around the room nodded their recognition of the name. Mrs Blake hastened to explain. ‘Fazal Mahmood was one of the leading cricketers of the world – perhaps the greatest seam bowler of his day. He won Pakistan their first Test victory in England at the Oval. But he knew how to mix. He was a very popular man when he was a professional at East Lancs, and he enjoyed his time in the town. My late husband played against him and knew him.’
    The youth whom she had answered was baffled by this unexpected intrusion. He shouted across the hall as belligerently as he could, ‘You’re talking about before I was bloody born, lady!’
    Peach spoke decisively from the platform. ‘Before I was born too, laddie. But the lady has a point. One of the first Muslims the town had seen was welcomed here and was happy to mix with the