By the time I’d taken a quick tour of the estate, popped up to say hello to aunt Sakina and uncle Ali and headed down to meet my mates at the station cafeteria, everything was fine, we were back in sync, I was choked like them by the stifling atmosphere of the estate, in tune the mood of all-conquering Islam. I needed to think, to look at things objectively, if that was possible. As it turned out, nothing much had changed, it was same old same old. People were a little more panicky since the new emir Flicha and Cyclops the imam showed up. There was a lot more violence but the estate hadn’t degenerated into civil war; there were casualties but nothing fatal and, although there had been a shitload of death threats, nothing had actually happened. For the shopkeepers, the jihad tax had taken a big hike but the protection rackets were gone. The non-Muslims were completely fazed, they said they couldn’t afford to pay, they were threatening to move out, march on the Office of Taxation, stage a sit-in at the police station. A lot of boys had dropped out of school and started going to the mosque, a lot of the girls had started wearing the hijab, some of them had stopped going out and some of the older men, tired of constantly being lectured, had started wearing a scarf or a keffiyeh and sermonising themselves. The few regulars who still hung out in the local bars had started carrying prayer beads. The drug dealers in the south tower blocks have disappeared, but there’s no reason to think they’re dead, they’ve moved on or gone into hiding, they’ll be back. All in all, the social order has changed without breaking down. Thirty families moved out in the first week, but this was compensated by thirty new families arriving, a bunch from North Africa, one from Mali, a Pakistani family, one from Somalia, a family from Cape Verde and another from Romania. The population has remained pretty stable, but the ethnic and religious mix is narrower. A crew of new Kapos—real hard bastards — has taken over from the old ones who were demobbed for being too lenient, for fraternising with the enemy. “What about Com’Dad?” I asked. No one can understand what he’s up to, he’s keeping up a Level 4 surveillance and waiting to see what happens. He still does his daily rounds, but twice as fast as he used to. “What about the people on the estate?” “What about them? They’re waiting to see what happens.”
It didn’t seem like much, but it knocked me for six. How were we ever going to stop this thing? Back in Aïn Deb, it had all seemed so simple: I’d imagined the estate extricating itself from this nightmare in no time, I thought all we needed was for people to talk to each other, tell their kids everything. Fuckwit that I am, I’d imagined climbing up on the roof of a car and talking about brotherhood, about truth, about the future. But it was the new imam, Cyclops, who did the talking. The One-Eyed fucker had heard from his spies that my parents had been murdered by jihadists and that I’d gone back to the bled to visit their graves. His messenger said the imam sent me his blessings and wanted to meet with me to explain what had really happened. It was a no brainer, I said I’d meet him and hear him out. If he was going to offer me the chance to kill him in place of his Algerian mates, I wasn’t going to pass up the opportunity. Given there was nothing else I could do, revenge was a good plan B. Fuck, it was my duty!
I went to Rachel’s old neighbourhood to look at the house. My mates had told me someone had bought it. It hurts, seeing strangers living in his house. I kept my hands behind my back and strolled around like I was just out for a walk. I had no reason to be round here anymore. In Rachel’s house the lights were all on. There were new curtains in the windows, a dog barking, the TV turned up full blast, an electric drill whining, a hammer banging away, children laughing. The garage was wide open, full of boxes and furniture. The new family was busy moving in, wiping away every trace of us, stamping their own mark on the place. It hurts to see yourself wiped away like that. Do they know that some guy committed suicide in the house? I doubt it, estate agents don’t get paid to tell their clients the truth. If they’re hammering and drilling away like that, they must be happy, which means they don’t know. They’ll find out once they’ve settled in, when the neighbours pop round to bring them up to speed. Then they’ll find out that the parents of the guy who used to live there had their throats cut in Algeria. That should shake them up. I hope they take it well. Rachel was a great guy, a good citizen, he never let anyone down, his ghost wouldn’t hurt a fly. But I can see how it might spook them. Rachel’s house — like our house back in Aïn Deb — is haunted by a terrible secret, by the greatest crime in history, and in the end that sort of shit seeps through the walls, gnaws at your guts, it does your head in, drives you mad. It killed Rachel, and it will kill anyone who gets too close. All the time I lived in that house, I was constantly worrying, crying, trembling, panicking, and the more I tried to block it out, the more clearly I could see the ghosts on the horizon, marching towards me, staring at me with their hollow eyes. Every time I ran off into the night, I could hear their cries following me, only to disappear when the sun came up and the tears dried on my face.
I went to the cemetery like I promised back in Aïn Deb. I sat on Rachel’s grave and talked to him for a long time. I knew he could hear me. “Hey, bro” I said. “You know what? I just got back from Aïn Deb. It was all thanks to Ophélie, really, she gave me the cash for the trip. She told me: ‘Rachel would be happy to see you taking an interest in your family.’ See? I’m not a complete fuckup, and I’m getting better fast. Everything back in the bled is fine, apart from the weather, but it’s winter so I suppose it’s normal that it’s freezing and pissing down all the time. The people are really cool. They took care of me, especially Mimed, the shoemaker’s son. You probably don’t know him, he wasn’t even born when you left for France. Actually, you might remember him — that time you came back to bring me to France, he was bawling his eyes out because I was leaving and he blamed you, he was screaming at you. He’s a good looking guy these days with lots of happy kids. I didn’t tell them you killed yourself, they were so excited to hear about you, I just couldn’t bring myself to tell them. I did what you did, I went to papa and maman’s graves. It was nice: their last resting place is so peaceful. Your cemetery is nice too, it’s beautiful, it’s quiet, full of flowers with people coming and going, birds singing, couples whispering to each other. You’re lucky. . And I wanted to tell you, I read your diary. Com’Dad gave it to me after you. . after the investigation. He said, ‘Your brother was a great guy.’ It’s not like he was telling me anything new, I’ve always known that. All that stuff about papa’s past, it’s awful. We’d have been better off not knowing, you’d still be here, still be with Ophélie, things would be fine. At first I thought you were too hard on papa, but thinking about it, I realised you were right. What I read in your diary and what I found out from the books you left sent shivers down my spine. I aged, like, twenty years. I mean, could something like that happen again? I tell myself it couldn’t but when I see what the jihadists are doing on the estate and everywhere else, I think they’d outdo the Nazis if they ever came to power. They’re too full of hate and pride to just gas everyone. I’ve been trying to think how we can stop them, the people on the estate don’t say anything and the cops are keeping an eye, but from a safe distance. My mates and me, we stand up to them as best we can, but we’re just kids, people are more afraid of us than they are of the Islamists. And I wanted to tell you that I’m going to try to publish your diary and mine, I hope you think it’s the right thing to do, I hope I can find a publisher. Like that poet Primo Levi said, you have to tell kids everything. Me and the guys are thinking of setting up a club to teach them all the stuff people have been hiding from them, they need to know, they’re the ones who’ll take after their parents, the good and the bad. If you’re okay with the idea, I’d like to ask your old teacher, Madame Dominique G.H. to go over it, make it into a proper book. She won’t say no, she had a lot of time for you. Anyway, that’s what I wanted to say, bro. Momo and the guys say hello, and aunt Sakina sends her love. I suppose you know poor uncle Ali is a bit gone in the head these days. I love you, I owe you a lot. I’ll come back and visit. Get some rest.”