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.The organization was a peaceful one which prided itself on furthering understanding between the British and Indian communities.This was not always easy because, like most immigrants, the Indians liked to stick together and Bradford’s Asian population had now got to the point where, in many streets, it was rare to see a white face.To the consternation of the society’s president and secretary, Mr Binodh Gopalji, this fact was somewhat resented by the shrinking white community.However, he worked hard to smooth out what he called ‘the minor little hiccups’ that interrupted the smoothness of his community’s absorption into the British way of life.It was a source of some satisfaction to him that, by and large, his modest efforts appeared to be successful.The next envelope was delivered at seven thirty-nine, to an address in the North 8 district of London.This was the location of the West Indian Action Group, which, as its name suggested, was fairly forceful in pursuing the interests of its West Indian members, though even its critics could hardly describe it as militant.The members, who were mainly younger second-generation black immigrants from the islands of the Caribbean, were vociferous, educated, and angry.They wanted jobs, houses, and an end to discrimination.Despite the provocative suggestions of certain right-wing politicians that they should be encouraged to return to Trinidad or Barbados, they regarded Britain as their home, which was not surprising since most of them had spent the greater part of their lives there.For much of the time the office was run by a slim twenty-two-year-old law student called Leonie Brown, whose family had emigrated from the island of Antigua in 1949.But, being a girl who liked to go out dancing almost as much as she liked going to bed with her lusty new boyfriend, she didn’t often get to sleep before two, and was rarely in the office before nine-thirty.This envelope, too, remained unopened on the floor.The third envelope was delivered later, at eight-twenty.Here, at an office in the City, there was someone to receive it.David Levene often arrived early.He found he got a lot of work done in the quiet time between eight and eight-thirty.Although he was a journalist and it wasn’t really his job to do so, he picked up the mail and sifted through it.He noticed the buff-coloured padded envelope straight away.The six staff at the Red Star kept a wary eye open for unusual packages.As an official publication of the Communist Party they were used to receiving the occasional hate mail.People had been known to send dog turds, bad eggs, and other such subtle indications of resentment.But was this package unusual?No clue to who the sender might be.Post mark: W1.He flexed it in his fingers.A hard object half-way down.The rest crunchy – as if it contained granules of some kind.He sniffed at the flap.Slightly acrid.Could be a chemical that let off a bad smell.He thought for a moment.Always better to be on the safe side.He put the envelope in his desk.As soon as the others got in he’d discuss it with them.At two minutes to nine Binodh Gopalji unlocked the door of the Anglo-Asian Society’s office in Bradford and, as was his habit, carefully hung his coat and hat on the hook behind the door.Then he stopped to pick up the mail off the mat.He recognized an electricity bill, which was not at all welcome since the society was always short of funds; two circulars; a batch of Indian publications; fifteen letters and a padded envelope.He sat down at his desk and looked out of the window for a moment.A nice day, and getting better.The sun was making an effort to break through.It didn’t happen very often in the British winters.But he didn’t mind that.He loved Britain: it was tolerant, ordered, and comfortable.He thought with pride: Simply the best country in the world.He began to open the mail, carefully and methodically, as was his way.Leaving the bills and circulars until last, he began with the letters.Requests for news of relatives, requests from India for an introduction to a possible bride – the only quick way of getting into Britain nowadays – requests for help.Requests, always requests, which was just how it should be.He came to the padded envelope.It was taped down at one end.By opening it carefully, it could be reused.Since this type of envelope was expensive, it was a consideration not to be sniffed at.Patiently, he stripped off the Sellotape and was pleased to see it had not brought away any of the paper.Then, angling the envelope so that he could see inside it, he unfolded the end.A piece of card.He pulled it out.Although he remembered nothing about that afterwards.The force of the explosion, though relatively small, was sufficient to knock him backwards off his chair on to the floor, leaving him stunned.However, it was the sheet of flame that blasted outwards in a three foot arc that did the damage.It scorched away all the hair and much of the skin from his face and hands.And, though the eyelids can close faster than the shutter of a camera, Binodh Gopalji’s reacted a fraction of a second too late, and the blast hit his eyes.He was found almost immediately, by another tenant, and fifteen minutes later was in the emergency room of the nearest hospital.His condition was not critical, but severe enough – skin grafts would be required to repair the burnt skin; and his eyes would never quite recover from their blasting
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