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 any more. 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 and it was 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.