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, I was back in sync, I was choked like them by the stifling atmosphere of the estate, the mood of all-conquering Islam. I needed to think, to look at things objectively – it 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 aggro 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 saying they’d 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 were still in the local bars had started carrying prayer beads. The dealers in the south tower blocks have disappeared, but there’s no reason to think they’re dead, they’ve hung out or 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, a Somalian family, a family from Cap Verde and one 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 binned off 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.’