why anyone should give you the time of day. You want to be a someone, you have to be seen as a someone. You got to make sure people notice you.
Devil’s father had got that bit sussed a long time ago. You couldn’t walk down a street with him without people running up to him, calling out his name, waving. People loved Pastor Jones. Needed him. Worshipped him.
Yeah, he knew what he was doing. He knew how to work it better than anyone else.
And Devil knew, too – had figured out within a day of being in this place that he was going to have to change, that if he was going to survive he was going to have to lead. He’d looked at himself in the mirror and brought about a transformation. Gone was the middle-class kid to whom black was just the colour of his skin, who hunched his shoulders so that his large frame didn’t intimidate people. And instead, Devil was born: tall, broad, insolent, swaggering, angry. Someone people would be afraid of. Someone people wouldn’t dare to cross.
Devil walked down through the tunnel that went between the two high rises, the tunnel that no one wanted to be anywhere near after dark except for the junkies, the slags, people who didn’t care any more, who had no respect for themselves whatsoever. Devil had no respect for them either. Devil didn’t have any respect for anyone, except himself. Even his crew were just sheep, following him. They didn’t have the courage to do anything for themselves.
Not like him. He winced at the smell of urine, of excrement, of stale alcohol, dirty clothes. The first time he’d walked through the tunnel he’d nearly pissed himself. He’d never been anywhere like it in his life; never been outside his leafy suburban town in Hertfordshire, where everyone lived in nice new houses with gardens and cars parked out front, where everyone knew who he was, where everyone smiled and gave him presents when they came to call on his dad. Where he used to listen to Leona practising the piano and tried to put her off by pulling silly faces.
But life, Devil had learnt, changed. Nothing could be depended on except yourself. Nothing.
A ray of early autumn sunshine hit him as he came out of the tunnel and he smiled, enjoying the warmth on his skin. Things were on the up. The Green Lanes Massive had been told, had got what was coming to them. The boy had done his job. Got caught, the stupid prick, but that was his own fault. He’d frozen apparently, stood there afterwards just looking at the boy on the ground, holding the knife like some kind of idiot. But that was okay. Those who needed to know knew that Devil was behind it; the police had the boy banged up and nothing to link him to the Dalston Crew, so it was all clean, all sorted.
Of course the Green Lanes Massive would retaliate, but Devil was ready for them. His boys were tougher, hungrier; they would go further. That’s what it was all about, Devil had realised a long time ago. It was a game of chicken. You had to be prepared to go further than anyone else. You had to have no fear. No fear meant no weakness, meant no one had anything on you. And no one having anything on you gave you power. No one having anything on you made you invincible.
He took the long way round, through the deserted scrubland at the back of the estate. There’d been plans once to turn it into a play area for kids, with a five-a-side football pitch and a youth club; the foundations had even been dug. But the day they delivered the wood to build it, the place was torched; soon after that all the plans were dropped.
He was on the road now, ambling down towards the arcade, hands in his pockets. He didn’t usually leave the estate alone; safety in numbers and all that. But today he was feeling confident. And he didn’t want to hang with his boys all the time. They talked a load of shit, laughed at stupid things. They were boring. Infantile. That had been one of his words, couple of weeks ago now. In-fan-tile. Like an infant. Like a baby.
Devil’s father had got that bit sussed a long time ago. You couldn’t walk down a street with him without people running up to him, calling out his name, waving. People loved Pastor Jones. Needed him. Worshipped him.
Yeah, he knew what he was doing. He knew how to work it better than anyone else.
And Devil knew, too – had figured out within a day of being in this place that he was going to have to change, that if he was going to survive he was going to have to lead. He’d looked at himself in the mirror and brought about a transformation. Gone was the middle-class kid to whom black was just the colour of his skin, who hunched his shoulders so that his large frame didn’t intimidate people. And instead, Devil was born: tall, broad, insolent, swaggering, angry. Someone people would be afraid of. Someone people wouldn’t dare to cross.
Devil walked down through the tunnel that went between the two high rises, the tunnel that no one wanted to be anywhere near after dark except for the junkies, the slags, people who didn’t care any more, who had no respect for themselves whatsoever. Devil had no respect for them either. Devil didn’t have any respect for anyone, except himself. Even his crew were just sheep, following him. They didn’t have the courage to do anything for themselves.
Not like him. He winced at the smell of urine, of excrement, of stale alcohol, dirty clothes. The first time he’d walked through the tunnel he’d nearly pissed himself. He’d never been anywhere like it in his life; never been outside his leafy suburban town in Hertfordshire, where everyone lived in nice new houses with gardens and cars parked out front, where everyone knew who he was, where everyone smiled and gave him presents when they came to call on his dad. Where he used to listen to Leona practising the piano and tried to put her off by pulling silly faces.
But life, Devil had learnt, changed. Nothing could be depended on except yourself. Nothing.
A ray of early autumn sunshine hit him as he came out of the tunnel and he smiled, enjoying the warmth on his skin. Things were on the up. The Green Lanes Massive had been told, had got what was coming to them. The boy had done his job. Got caught, the stupid prick, but that was his own fault. He’d frozen apparently, stood there afterwards just looking at the boy on the ground, holding the knife like some kind of idiot. But that was okay. Those who needed to know knew that Devil was behind it; the police had the boy banged up and nothing to link him to the Dalston Crew, so it was all clean, all sorted.
Of course the Green Lanes Massive would retaliate, but Devil was ready for them. His boys were tougher, hungrier; they would go further. That’s what it was all about, Devil had realised a long time ago. It was a game of chicken. You had to be prepared to go further than anyone else. You had to have no fear. No fear meant no weakness, meant no one had anything on you. And no one having anything on you gave you power. No one having anything on you made you invincible.
He took the long way round, through the deserted scrubland at the back of the estate. There’d been plans once to turn it into a play area for kids, with a five-a-side football pitch and a youth club; the foundations had even been dug. But the day they delivered the wood to build it, the place was torched; soon after that all the plans were dropped.
He was on the road now, ambling down towards the arcade, hands in his pockets. He didn’t usually leave the estate alone; safety in numbers and all that. But today he was feeling confident. And he didn’t want to hang with his boys all the time. They talked a load of shit, laughed at stupid things. They were boring. Infantile. That had been one of his words, couple of weeks ago now. In-fan-tile. Like an infant. Like a baby.
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