The Devil

by Graham Johnson

  However, the dispute escalated, and Herd houses were firebombed in revenge. My mate Neo had an asthmatic child who needed oxygen to help with breathing problems. Once the petrol bomb made contact with the oxygen, the house exploded. They all just about got out with their lives. Franny Bennett’s house was also firebombed. And a house which they thought was mine was attacked, too.

  Then, one night, I heard a crash downstairs. I looked out the window and saw flames coming up from below. I spotted someone running away and thought it was probably a junkie. Dionne was babysitting all the young girls in our family but had luckily taken them to her mum’s for the night. As I walked down the stairs, I thought to myself, ‘This means war.’

  I called a meeting with Sweeney via his right-hand man, who said, ‘He wants you to meet him at Littlewoods, as it’s all camera’d up.’ As Sweeney approached, I saw that he was only around five feet four inches and about five stone soaking wet. The first thing I did was turn my back on him as a mark of disrespect. If he’d wanted to, he could have stabbed or shot me, but I knew as soon as I saw him that he didn’t want to have it with me. I looked at him and said, ‘Derek, you’ve put £30,000 on my life and you’ve petrol bombed my house.’

  ‘I wasn’t responsible for your house,’ he replied. ‘I’m telling you that wasn’t me. It’s down to somebody trying to mix it between us.’ There was a possibility that this was true, but I didn’t believe him. He then said, ‘Anyway, I don’t care whether I live or die.’

  I said, ‘What about your two kids that survived the fire? Do they care whether you live or die? Because I’ve got a daughter who cares whether I live or die. Now, I’ve heard that you’re a good little ’un and that you can go hammer and tongs. Well, I’m a good big ’un, and I can kick you up and down the length of this fucking street and beat you to a point where you’re just about alive. If you don’t believe I can do it, let’s go, lad. Let’s go.’

  All the time I was talking to him, I was looking into his eyes and into his soul – the Devil persona and the dark looks were in full effect. Usually, when I was like that – breathing down someone’s neck with smoke coming out of my nostrils – my target melted like fucking butter in front of a fire. This is no brag, just fact. I said, ‘These are my words of iron. I didn’t burn your family. I don’t accost wives. I don’t accost any family member. I keep it just between me and my enemies. You can check my track record. If I’d a problem with you, I would’ve attacked you there and then on your doorstep. I wouldn’t have set your fucking house on fire.’

  I could see he was beginning to realise that my words of iron held great truth. As one family man to another, I made him a deal. ‘Look,’ I said, ‘the job on my house has been superficial. There’s not really any great damage. So I’m prepared to draw a line here and now. You don’t step over that line again. If you do anything to me ever again, I will come for you with everything I’ve got, and I won’t stop until you’re in a box. It’s up to you. Do you want to make a deal with me?’ Derek agreed that he would withdraw the contract on my life and swore that nothing else would happen to me or my family. True to his word, nothing else did.

  It was around the time of all the firebombings that the Herd slowly started to disintegrate. One incident in particular signalled the beginning of the end for our crew. Two carloads of us were ambushed by a rival door crew over a misunderstanding. Lads with balaclavas and pickaxe handles ran over and started attacking the cars. I was sitting in the back seat by the window when one of them smashed it in and started waving a bat at me. Our driver panicked and drove off, not giving us a chance to fight back. One of our crew by the name of Wanda was left behind, and they stamped all over him. Later, we found out that our attackers were from a security firm from Everton called Dynamite Security – all bad racists with something to prove. Of course, there had to be some retaliation for this attack.

  Soon after, one of Dynamite’s mob called Shelley Birkenstein was shot in a nightclub. I knew nothing about it – it was someone else in the Herd who set up the contract. Ironically, Shelley was a mate of mine, even though he was part of the other firm. The other twist in the tail was that the shooter was a guy called Hassan. When he went back to his Herd paymasters for his fee, they murdered him. After that, it was evens. But the upshot was that there was too much heat on everyone, and the Herd scattered.

  On top of all of this, the Rock Star and I fell out because of a dispute between our families. My nephew Grantley had been shot in the head by a kid who was best friends with the Rock Star’s brother. It caused a great division between me and the Rock Star, forcing us to take opposite sides. We spoke about it on long early morning walks to try and find a solution. But when more shootings took place, I knew it was time for everybody to head for the hills. At that time, I had around 18 grand in cash lying around the house. I called the Rock Star and said, ‘I know that things are a little bit tight with you at the moment, so I’m giving you nine grand so you can get off. Pay me back when you can.’ I moved over the water and the Rock Star to southern Europe, and we kind of lost touch.

  To this day, he still hasn’t paid me back the nine grand. People have tried to poison my mind against him, but I believe in my heart of hearts that we will always be friends and brothers, and that we can one day pick up where we left off. The Rock Star’s my last connection with Andrew John. He was Andrew’s protégé and like a little brother to me. He is a tremendous person in his own right. I’ve got a lot of time and great respect for him.

  36

  PROBLEM-SOLVER EXTRAORDINAIRE

  Like an alcoholic trying to stay on the wagon, I steeled myself to give up crime for a second time. I threw myself into building up my security company. Chris manned the desk, and I was the problem-solver extraordinaire dealing with the intangibles. A typical intangible involved dealing with corrupt contractors nicking loads of gear and trying to cover their tracks by blaming our firm.

  One time, a site agent tore a strip off me after £40,000 worth of white goods went missing. I suspected it might be him, so I went to his house that night. The second I saw his face, I knew he was guilty. I said, ‘If you’ve got the goods, I will take them back and won’t shop you to your bosses. If you refuse to let me in, I will come in anyway, and if I find the goods, I will blow you up.’ If someone behaves like that towards me, I have full licence to treat them like the worst bitch in the street. Gratitude is a burden but revenge is a pleasure. It felt good to get my own back.

  The business grew. I had 500 lads working for me, and we were hired to do security for a £200-million office complex. I told my guards that I would give them a £500 reward if they called me whenever a thief tried to bribe them into turning a blind eye. One day it paid off, and I got a call from one of my guards. Apparently, he had been approached by a lad from one of the haulage firms who wanted to nick £10,000 worth of cobblestones from the site. Acting on my behalf, the guard agreed to let the lad into the site at midnight to collect the cobbles. Little did he know that I was hunched down by the checkpoint, lying in wait.

  The lorry pulled up and the driver said, ‘I’m here to collect the cobblestones.’ That was my cue. I launched myself at the cabin like a gazelle, jumped across to the driver, smacked the keys out of the ignition and took the lorry hostage.

  When I jumped back out of the cabin, the driver came out after me. He was a bit of a big lad, so I gave him a kick straight into his guts that doubled him over on his hands and knees. I then got him by the hair and said, ‘You’ve chose the wrong nigger to try and rob, mate. This is Stephen French’s site.’ I then fined him £5,000 and confiscated the wagon as collateral. Later, the big brother who owned the haulage firm threatened me with all his gangster connections if I didn’t give the lorry back.

  I said, ‘Listen, mate. I don’t care if you’re connected to King Kong himself, cos King Kong’s got fuck all on me, you understand? If you want to come here, I’m ready. Talk is cheap.’

  Finally, the elder brother paid me £3,
500 and we shook hands. I believe he made his younger brother work off the debt in the end. As promised, I gave the guard his £500 reward, Chris got £1,000 (although he had no idea where it had come from) and I spunked my £1,000 in the casino. I also gave the site agent £1,000 as a gesture of goodwill and to remind him of my part in the whole affair. In the event that he was on another multimillion-pound project, the chances were that he’d hire us again, as we had shown ourselves to be a trustworthy and honest security firm. That’s why I had the most jobs and the most exclusive contracts with builders. All I was doing was a good job and going above and beyond the call of duty when necessary, without impugning anybody’s reputation. These stories illustrate how battles can be won without firing a single shot. It’s what I like to call good captaincy – good piloting of the ship. Isn’t that what you want? No casualties and total victory? Can it get better than that? No, it can’t.

  Our security business Chrymark Security soon reached a turnover of four million quid. But I was missing the action and craving my former life. I resisted, but in the end I substituted crime for another addiction – cocaine. It was bad. It took over my life for about a year, and I went low. To make matters worse, Chris had managed to break two legs messing around on a motorbike. We took our eye off the ball, and the security firm began to suffer. Then we fell out over a property venture. While I was in my cocaine stupor, I suspected Chris had gone behind my back on a property deal. First, I found out that he had used our company funds to help buy a £4-million property development, although it was only a small amount for a deposit that he later paid back. Second, I believed that the deal had only gone through because my contact owned the building. And third, Chris turned to me to save the day when the deal was about to collapse.

  Meanwhile, Chris had been named Entrepreneur of the Year at an awards ceremony for local businessmen. I congratulated him and telephoned his mum and dad to tell them the good news. However, during his acceptance speech, he failed to mention me at all. One of the lads with us nudged me and said, ‘You deserve that award as much as Chris does.’ That was something that stuck with me.

  Chris really began to distance himself from me. I was still in a cocaine stupor – my home life was in tatters, and I was very ill. I knew I had to come off the stuff. Within 21 days of stopping, it was out of my system, and my head began to clear. I started to get very suspicious about Chris and his secretive behaviour. As it turned out, I discovered that he had two new business partners and had completely cut me off. Disappointment, betrayal and despair – all superseded by furious anger – coursed through my body.

  I’d always promised Chris that I’d never use violence against him, so we agreed to sell Chrymark. I settled on a fee of 250 grand for my share. I also wanted a share of the property portfolio, so I went to my solicitor to get his advice. It turned out that Chris had also paid a visit to Enzo, but my solicitor’s loyalties remained with me, and he told Chris, ‘You danced with the Devil. Now it’s time to pay the piper.’

  Chris accused me of blackmail and threatening his father, which was totally untrue. The police heard about the tension between me and Chris, and stopped me from flying out to watch Liverpool in Istanbul in the 2005 Champions League final. They thought I was going to damage Chris, who also happened to be going. Eventually, he agreed to pay me £1.3 million. Despite the conflict, I’ve got a lot of love for Chris, even though we are still poles apart.

  In 2005, I switched my interest to property development full time, which is something I am still involved in today. I play the stock market and the Lloyd’s insurance market. At my leisure, I still do debt recoveries, arbitration and act as a security consultant. I work when I feel like it and on average earn £250 an hour – more on a good day. Sometimes I can earn up to £5,000 for a half-day’s work. And yes, the taxman’s getting his. I ain’t going to make the mistake of stealing his money.

  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.