The Devil (31 page)

Now let me ask you a question: would you rather risk your life sorting out some underworld mess with zero payment at the end or would you prefer to earn a truckload of cash mediating between two middle-class white businessmen, who at their worst might say, ‘That's a bit strong, isn't it, old boy?' Exactly.

I'd finally reached a point in my life when I was happy and contented. I was rich, but no longer had anything to do with the underworld. The Devil was still inside me, but I had evolved into a totally different person. I finally had my demons under control.

First thing in the morning, I switch on my mobile and a message pops up: ‘You are an unstoppable champion.' That sets me up for the rest of day.

EPILOGUE

SINS OF THE FATHER

On a hot summer's day in July 2006, I got some bad news. My son Stephen had been shot. For a split moment in time, my whole world collapsed. I had only spoken to him two hours before. One of his mates called me to tell me that he was dead. I was grief-stricken. Why had this happened. Was it God punishing me for all those years of evil? Was it payback for being the Devil?

Soon my grief turned to anger. I had been going straight for many years, and this would prove to be my greatest test. Would I have to become the Devil again and avenge my son's tormentors? I got my balaclava and headed for the woods to dig up the gun I had stashed there for a rainy day.

Like an SAS soldier going into action, I prepared for war. But as I was going through my mental checklist, I couldn't stop thinking about Stephen's life. Growing up, he had continually been in trouble. Signs of his criminal tendencies were there at an early age. For example, I remembered getting a call from my mate Brownie, complaining that Stephen and his mates had been caught on camera robbing his shop. Brownie sold American clothes. You know, the jeans round the arse and the big puffa jackets – ghetto fabulous. I got the CCTV footage off Brownie and paid for everything my son stole. Then, to keep him out of trouble, I gave him a security job on one of my sites. For that, he got a K-reg Renault 19, a petrol card and £350 a week. But he never turned up. Instead, he pulled stupid stunts. For instance, on one occasion he threatened a doorman with a gun. I had to say to the doorman, ‘Look, he's my son. If you put him in jail, I'm duty and honour bound to do something to you, and I don't want to. So I'm asking you to take £5,000 and drop the charges.' Luckily he did. All Stephen's life, he had me to protect him from harm – and now this. Waves of guilt washed over me.

Apparently, three individuals – two on mountain bikes and one hiding in the bushes – had laid in wait to murder him. They had ambushed him and shot him. Now I had to make the biggest decision of my life. I had the power to plunge the ghetto into war over this and kill those responsible – blow their houses up and kidnap their kids. I even knew their families. They were decent folk who just sold a bit of weed. But it didn't matter. Now they were going to get it.

Within hours, my mate Marsellus, who was now out of jail, tracked down Stephen's aggressors. He phoned me and wanted to know what he should do with them. I could hear the yells and screams in the background. It was obvious that they'd already been seriously interviewed.

I took a deep breath. My whole future hung in the balance. Then, without flinching, I said, ‘Hand them over to the police.

What?' He couldn't believe it. He continued, ‘I'm reluctant to do that.

Let the authorities deal with them. There has been enough hurt and killing. It's got to stop.

Marsellus pleaded, ‘I don't want to do it, but, OK, I'll do it for you, Stephen.' He then delivered the culprits to the police station. That was when I knew I had truly turned a corner. I couldn't believe it myself. A huge feeling of relief washed over me.

Then, as if rewarded by God himself, a miracle happened. Stephen's mum phoned me up. ‘He's alive,' she said. ‘The wound is superficial.

Stephen was alive! Luckily, he'd noticed movement in the bushes and had been alert enough to flee the situation, escaping with a bullet in the ass. I couldn't believe it. There is a God!

Eventually, I got hold of Stephen and warned him, ‘No retaliations. No revenge. No more violence.

At that point, I knew I had finally exorcised the Devil from my life.

POSTSCRIPT

This book is an account written by Graham Johnson. It is not an autobiography. As I stated in the preface, it is my opinion that the story you have just read could apply to any number of black males born in 1960s Toxteth, colloquially known as the ghetto since the 1981 disturbances.

At times, this book is funny, sensitive, harsh, brutal and vicious, but the central message is to lay down your firearms, embrace knowledge and education, and strive to make yourself a better person through employment, legitimately and legally. If this message reaches one person, the effort and energy that has been expelled to bring this project to fruition has been worthwhile.

This book is also a story about the city called Liverpool – the city of the Scouser. Black people have lived in Liverpool for 400 years. After the 1981 disturbances, now referred to as the Toxteth riots, the Gifford Report found that Liverpool was the most racist city in Europe. Fast forward and Liverpool will be the European Capital of Culture in 2008. As a result, this book is the story, from a black perspective, of how Liverpool has transformed from being ‘the most racist city in Europe' to the venue for the European Capital of Culture and how the black diaspora has been intertwined with this development.

Later this year, Liverpool celebrates its 800th Birthday. The city is famous for being one of the world's great sea ports. What is not so widely known is that it was also the centre for what is referred to as the Golden Triangle – the collection of slaves from Africa and their transportation to the West Indies, where they were exchanged for coffee, tea, sugar and other goods, which were brought to Europe and sold, the three-legged journey then starting all over again. To this day, the legacy of slavery can be seen in Liverpool. Parliament Street and Granby Street, famous thoroughfares in Liverpool 8, and Penny Lane, made famous by the Beatles song, are all named after slave traders who made their money and wealth in the traffic of human beings. And many of the historic buildings of Liverpool were made on the backs of black slaves. Racism was an intrinsic part of the Merseyside social fabric.

In the twenty-first century, racism still exists, although it is now a lot less overt then it used to be, thanks in part to legislation, political correctness and the development of a better understanding of different cultures from around the world. As for Liverpool being the most cosmopolitan city in the world, the jury is still out on that one.

My story has shown that I never allowed racism to hold me back, never allowed it to be a barrier, never allowed it to be a problem. That doesn't suggest that I was unaware of it, but instead that I decided I was going to do something about the institutional racism, the endemic racism, the guy in the street who called me a dirty black bastard. I decided to say, ‘Fuck that shit. I'm not playing that game. I'm going to change the rules.'

A prime example of this was in the early to mid-1980s. There were several city-centre clubs that imposed an illegal ban on black people. The security staff would stop black guys and deny them entry into the clubs. My cohorts and I took over several of these establishments. The first one was adjacent to the Adelphi Hotel. Andrew and I went down, rendered four of the doormen unconscious and allowed young black guys entry into the club. We drank free champagne all night and left without paying. That is what I call ‘rough justice'. The owners of the club contacted the authorities, who in turn contacted us. However, there was, of course, no evidence and no witnesses. It was as if nothing had happened, and we came out on top – as usual.

To the person who takes the moral high ground and says that I acted outside and above the law, I say that sometimes the law is an arse and sometimes the law does not encourage fair play. I specialised in fitting round pegs into square holes. I shouldn't have had to deal with a racist police force and an endemically racist community, but I adapted to my terrain and applied myself to any given situation. And I had the confidence in my own ability to achieve my goals.

A lot of people who know me well do not like me – they find me arrogant. Arrogance is a finger on the hand of vanity. Vanity is foolishness. However, what people generally mistake for arrogance is actually my strong self-belief. Self-belief is the key to success in any endeavour you wish to undertake. If one is the ying, then the other is the yang. Name me the champion of any sport and I will show you a person who has self-belief. Self-doubt, on the other hand, is a demon that lurks in the subconscious, waiting for its chance to pounce at the most inconvenient of times. The mark of a true champion is to identify self-doubt, confront it as the demon it is and tame it. I personally took self-doubt for a walk on a lead – such was my belief in my own ability to do what was necessary to get me to where I needed to be.

I have not always lived my life honourably or with integrity, but I have evolved into a person with both those qualities in abundance. Given the environment that I was born into and bad things that I have done, the fact that I am here today is testament to my self-belief and my ability to survive at all costs. I am a good man who is capable of bad things. However, I no longer bear ill will towards anybody. Instead, I aim to live my life out in tranquillity and harmony. But for those of you who wish to prod, poke and tease me, please do not mistake my kindness for foolishness. You will find an underlying strength that is unfathomable to the ordinary individual. I believe that I am extraordinary – I am the problem-solver extraordinaire.

I do not stand in judgement of anybody. And I am not trying to rationalise or dilute in any way, shape or form my past behaviour. To those people that I have offended or upset during the course of my life, I unreservedly apologise. However, to my enemies who called me the Devil, I have this to say: ‘I never fucked a man who didn't deserve to be fucked.'

My philosophy on friendship is simple: it starts out as a clean sheet of paper with no marks or blemishes. If you do not mark that piece of paper, then neither will I. However, if you do mark the sheet, I won't cry and I won't moan. I won't even let you know I am upset until I am ready to totally cover and immerse the sheet and pay you back tenfold. I will let you know why I have acted and why I feel justified in doing so. Once again, if you are an enemy and you wish me ill, I say, ‘Be careful what you wish for, because the Devil may come and get you.'

The fact that so many of today's young people are ready to kill each other at the drop of a hat is a sorry situation. What they don't understand is that the man to fear is not the man who is prepared to kill you at the drop of a hat but the man who is prepared to die at the drop of a hat. The man who is prepared to die at the drop of a hat and defend his honour and integrity is a man who lives without fear of contradiction. This is a rounded, well-adjusted and capable individual. This is the person I have battled to become.

But please don't misunderstand me. I do not consider myself to be invincible. Not even Achilles was invincible. We all have our vulnerabilities and our weak spots. I identified mine and lived without fear of any man on the planet. However, as a consequence of the life I once led, I realise that I could still one day be murdered. I do not believe that this will necessarily be my fate, but being an intelligent and logical individual, I know that there is always the possibility.

Now that you've completed the book, you've read about the many assassination attempts on me so far. One of the main reasons for telling my story was to emphasise the futility of a life of crime and to show the devastation that is caused to a family when one of its sons is violently taken away from them by gun murder – which is what happens every day in the black community. Gun crime is on the increase throughout Britain. How many more mothers and fathers are going to lose their sons?

I have been honest and frank about my experiences. Today I don't consider myself to be a Devil; I consider myself to be a warrior angel. I am involved in trying to get young men to lay down their firearms and pick up a bricklayer's trowel or plumber's wrench or a mechanic's wheel brace. Anything other than a gun. Organisations such as MAG – Mother's Against Guns – reveal on a daily basis the pain that is caused when a young man is shot, and I want to add to the good work that they are doing.

Because I am well-known individual in Liverpool, the police have come to me and asked me to arbitrate between warring factions in my community on several occasions. They have approached me with intelligence that certain people are in danger of being shot. Superintendent Lol Carr, who is in charge of south Liverpool, has called me several times to inform me that a situation is brewing. I have always tried to assist in finding a peaceful resolution without any bodies turning up and to find a return to the status quo. That is one of my roles now.

My intention in the future is to set up a training centre to teach the young men of my community, black or white, a trade so that they have a skill other than that of pistolero (gun man) or drug dealer – to learn how to provide for and protect their families.

Today, some people believe that nothing has changed in Liverpool since the riots. I do not believe this. For instance, I have changed my opinion of white people. I have also changed my opinion of the police force. Although I referred to police corruption and brutality in the account of my life that I gave to Graham Johnson, I have also come across some very decent officers: Peter Street from Bromborough Police Station in the Wirral and Superindent Lol Carr in Liverpool – a big man with a big heart and a great concern for the wider community – to name just two examples. When Liverpool lost Chief Constable Norman Bettison, we lost an honest, incorruptible and dutiful police officer. I was well aware of the changes that took place when he was in office. As a result of his tenure, the police force in Liverpool now seems a lot more interested in upholding the law rather than enforcing it, as was the case pre-1981. Although racism is undoubtedly still a problem in the police, at least there are now systems in place to complain about it. Racism still occurs and is especially obvious in police officers fresh out of training college, who have an overbearing attitude at times. Racism could be eradicated in these younger officers with more extensive training, more accountability and a longer probation period.