The Devil Read Online Free Page B

We were veteran martial artists, in complete control of our bodies and minds, and we were prepared to step into the arena of combat – even if it was against the storm troopers of Margaret Thatcher’s establishment. Leroy cried out, ‘Enough is enough!’ Thus, the touchpaper had been lit. An uprising had begun. The rest, as they say, is history.
    Though the papers called it the Toxteth riots, what happened next wasn’t really a riot; it was a rebellion against oppression and injustice. One of the police cars, a Panda or Rover, I think, was pushed into some roadworks, then down a hill, before being set alight. The three injured officers escaped in the other car. The ferocity of our retaliation swept through the ghetto like a whirlwind; never before had such a force been seen in the UK. Leroy marched through the streets, like Spartacus through the villages, as the ranks rapidly swelled behind him.
    Andrew John and I fought side by side against the pigs. Terrified Merseyside police were forced to bus in officers from outside the region to put on the front line. The poor bastards never knew what hit them. However, it was not about race: both black and white joined forces in the battle against oppression and police brutality.
    I ripped the stripes from a sergeant’s arm, took his helmet and wore the spoils of victory like a Zulu warrior wearing a British red coat at the Battle of Isandlwana. They were badges of honour: proof of my courage and valour in the face of the enemy. Then I took a bin lid as a shield and broke off a table leg as a weapon. The army of people around me followed suit. I started to rhythmically bang the bin lid on the ground to warn my attackers off. Soon enough, my soldiers in arms began to do the same, making an unholy racket. Our aggressors turned heel and fled.
    There is something about watching the sight of your enemy flee that gives you a feeling higher than any drug. Although it was short-lived, I will never forget the glory of that victory for as long as I live – the screams, yells and dances of celebration. I was 21 years old, and for the first time in my life I felt truly free. I was the all-conquering lion of my tribe. I raised my head up to the blazing sky, let out a primeval roar of victory and felt a wave of sensation go through me that was better than sex.
    Nothing I have achieved since that moment comes even close to the feeling of power and strength I had that night in 1981. I felt like a Roman gladiator who had won his freedom in the arena. However, that was not the end of the battle. Full-scale rioting blew up over the next nine days, in which the police used CS gas for the first time in mainland Britain. The resulting damage amounted to 468 injured police officers, 500 arrests and at least 70 demolished buildings.
    Like a phoenix from the fire, I rose from the ashes of the riots a different man – the first of many epiphanies. It was then that I was reborn as the Devil – officially. I won the title off a guy called Lloyd Johnson, who had been the Devil before me. Amid the smoking ruins and tensions of the post-riot landscape, he had abused my sister in the street, because he thought she was white. Me and my brother rounded their whole family up, and I presented Lloyd ‘the Devil’ Johnson to her, like a dog at her feet. I told him to kiss her feet and apologise. So, it was from that day on that the name the Devil passed from him to me. He was evil and dark, but now I was the new ‘King of Hell’. Power, domination and control would be my watchwords from then on.
    But, as always, I faced a dichotomy of feelings. Kindness and love sat beside hate and violence in my soul. At the same time as being christened the Devil, I took it upon myself to adopt a poor orphan child and bring him up as my own. The baby’s name was Danny, and his dad – a wanted man – had been forced to flee abroad after the riots. Later on, his dad was killed