Sometimes, we’ll get a little visit from Com’Dad – that’s what we call Commissioner Lepère. He always pretends like he didn’t know we’d be there: ‘Hey guys, I didn’t see you there . . . I was just passing . . .’ Then he’ll come over, lean against the wall with us and chat like we’re old friends. Meanwhile we’re standing there wondering if he’s come to phish or philosophise. Both, my brothers, both. Sometimes we’ll feed him a scrap, some bit of bogus information, sometimes we’ll make out like we’re thinking aloud about lives of service to humanity and the environment. We have a laugh and then say our goodbyes, American style, high fives all round. Com’Dad even buys us all tea at Da Hocine or a coffee at the station bar. Poor bastard thinks it’s a good way of getting in with us. It’s so lame, but at the same time we pretend to our mates that we’ve got Com’Dad right where we want him, that we’re always feeding him false information and getting him to pull strings for illegals on the estate. As for Com’Dad, he’ll turn up uninvited at whatever’s going on, he’s there at every party, wedding, circumcision, excision, he pops round to celebrate when people get on a course, get out of prison, get their papers, and he never misses the slaughtering of the sheep at Eid. He always leads the procession at funerals. He’s part of the new school of policing: to know your enemy you have to live with him, live like him.