“Since then,” he adds ominously, “the dangerous areas have only become wider as the wealthier people have moved out. Now, only people who don’t know where to live will go there.” Before too long, the gruesome stories start to flow. “One of my friends was shot,” Kadeen recalls, casually.

“He was in the drug business. One morning, a squad of men who had dressed to look like police — but weren’t — walked into his house and woke everybody up. They assembled the whole family, and then executed him in front of them. They hit his mother with a vase. They still don’t know who did it.” As we drive, I learn that another friend died during a dispute over a thousand euros. “I know of about ten people who have been killed over trifles,” he reports.

“Some people died because they owed money; some were just in the wrong place at the wrong time. One year ago, a North African motorcyclist fell off his bike and hurt himself. He asked a black gang for help. They said no. Later that day, he sent his friends back with a gun and they shot one member dead.” Gun violence is a big problem in the suburbs. “Lots of my friends have guns,” he explains.

“Even those not involved in drugs. It’s easy to buy one. Really, if you have money you can get anything in the suburbs. Buying drugs is like buying a baguette.” He characterizes this state of affairs as “normal.” “You just don’t notice it when you’re from here.” He trails off and then changes the subject. “The locals don’t like journalists,” he says, smiling, “because they associate them with police raids.”

My heart sinks a little. On the advice of those in the know, I have eschewed my usual clothes and dressed in a hoodie and a nondescript T-shirt that I selected for its insipidity. Off came my American-flag belt, the Union Jack socks that I was given for Christmas, and, for that matter, anything that could feasibly give offense to anyone. On reflection, though, it doesn’t seem as if what I’m wearing will be the problem.