‘Idir, if you can’t think of anything sensible to say, then don’t say anything. Our parents will say we should talk to the police, the police will say we should talk to the judge, the judge will say we should talk to the government, the government will say that it has to be referred back to the mayors and you know what the mayors will say: fuck off!’

‘So it’s all down to us?’

‘Too right it is, Bidochon . . . and the first thing is, nobody says anything to anyone about what we’re planning.’

‘But what can we do? The jihadists are all over the estate – they’re the ones with the money, the lawyers, the connections, they’re the ones with friends in high places, all those ambassadors and shit . . .’

‘Counter-jihad, it’s the only way. We give them a taste of their own medicine – set up our own cells, infiltrate the . . .’

‘Yeah sure, all eight of us! And this counter-jihad, what religion were you planning to fight in the name of?’

‘Hey, Manchot! Are you with us here or are you dreaming about that arm you lost?’

I’ll stop there, I just wanted to give you an idea of the discussion. By the time we finished, we’d come up with three mutually exclusive angles: ‘We’re fucked and whatever we do we’re still fucked’ (Momo and his lot); ‘The only way to fight jihad is counter-jihad’ (Raymond and his lot) and ‘We need to bump off the imam’ (me and my lot). The last one is the one I planned to put into action.

After the meeting, we headed back to my house and picked up a couple of six-packs at the supermarket along the way. The eve of battle was going to be a long night.

Thursday, 10 October