James Craig - Never Apologise, Never Explain

The current?10 charge was a complete joke, Carlyle thought. The traffic was as bad as ever. Meanwhile, all you ever heard was the endless moaning of lazy rich people who thought that it was their inalienable human right to clog the place up with their monster, gas-guzzling, road-hogging 4x4s, popularly known as ‘Chelsea tractors’. These were the people who got Holyrod elected, so the charge wouldn’t be raised to a sensible level any time soon.

It was only after they had slalomed through two lanes of stationary traffic that Carlyle realised that this particular jam was primarily the result of a number 55 bus which had been brought to a halt at a forty-five-degree angle across three lanes of traffic at the corner of Bloomsbury Street and St Giles High Street. Standing in the middle of Shaftesbury Avenue, it took him a little while longer to appreciate that the bus was also on the wrong route. The 55, a single-operator, red double-decker Plaxton President, which came in from Leyton in the east, normally went along Bloomsbury Way and New Oxford Street, before terminating at Oxford Circus. For some reason, it had left its route and was a block south of where it should be.

Bemused, Carlyle took a couple of steps forward and squinted at the vehicle, which was about twenty feet in front of him. The 55 wasn’t indicating that it was out of service and he could see that a couple of passengers were still on board. Nor did the driver appear injured or incapacitated in any way. Rather, he was sitting in his cab like a lemon, watching the chaos unfold all around him, seemingly oblivious to a couple of tourists who were standing straight in front of the bus, videoing him.

The noise levels were rising as more and more drivers vented their displeasure. The temperature felt as if it had risen ten degrees in the last couple of minutes and the exhaust fumes were making Carlyle nauseous. He could taste the pollution collecting in the back of his throat. A familiar grinding sensation at the top of his spine, where it joined his skull, meant a monster headache was on the way. What he most wanted to do now was skip through the rest of the traffic and leave them all to it.

‘We’d better find out what this is all about,’ he shouted to Joe.

They made their way over to the bus and Carlyle rapped on the door at the front opposite the driver. The man was an unhealthy-looking off-white colour, in his twenties, with terrible skin and a pudding-bowl haircut. He gazed at them and then looked away. The passengers on the back seats sat gazing blankly out of the windows. Well used to the vagaries of London’s public transport, they were apparently unconcerned at events.

Walking round to the front of the bus, Carlyle pressed his ID up against the window, in front of the driver’s face. ‘We’re the police!’ he shouted. ‘Open the door!’

The driver blinked a couple of times, but said nothing. Instead, he sat with his hands on the steering wheel and didn’t move. Maybe he’s on drugs, Carlyle thought. His mood was deteriorating by the second. He could sense that a small crowd was gathering behind him and he needed to get the bus moved.

‘This guy is heading for the cells,’ Joe sighed.

The inspector banged his fist on the window. ‘Open the fucking door!’

Joe put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Hold on a second.’

Carlyle followed his sergeant back round to the side of the bus. He watched Joe reach down and open a small panel by the left-hand side of the exit doors. Inside was a green button about the size of a 10p piece, with the legend emergency door open above it in small script. Joe pressed the button and the doors whooshed open.

‘Why didn’t you do that in the first place?’ Carlyle snapped.

Joe just smiled and stepped back, moving slightly to allow his boss to get on.

‘Get rid of the gawkers,’ Carlyle barked, ‘and call for some uniforms.’ He jumped on the bus and slammed the palm of his hand into the Plexiglas partition that kept the driver safe from the travelling public. ‘What the fuck is going on?’ he asked. ‘Are you lost?’

The driver looked straight ahead, ignoring Carlyle and remaining mute.

‘Is this your bus?’

Finally, the man turned to look straight at Carlyle. Taking the right lapel of his jacket between his thumb and forefinger, he indicated his name badge to the policeman. ‘Yes,’ he said in a shaky voice, ‘it’s my bus. And this is a protest. What does it look like?’

‘It looks like piss-poor parking,’ said Carlyle, relaxing slightly. At least the silly sod seemed compos mentis. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Clive.’

‘And what exactly are you protesting about, Clive?’

‘The advertising.’

Carlyle was confused. ‘What advertising?’

‘The advertising on this side of the bus,’ said Clive huffily, as if that was obvious.

Carlyle frowned. Turning round, he stepped back off the bus and stared up at the poster running horizontally between the upper and lower decks.

In disgusting pink letters, the text read: there’s probably no god. now stop worrying and enjoy your life.

Carlyle blinked, did a double-take and started laughing. He stepped back on the bus and said to the driver: ‘What’s wrong with that?’

‘It offends my religious beliefs.’ Clive actually looked hurt.

‘And what are those, exactly?’ Carlyle asked, failing to keep the as-if-I-could-give-a-fuck tone out of his voice.

‘I am a member of the East London Tabernacle Missionary Baptist Church,’ Clive said solemnly. ‘Haven’t missed a Sunday in almost six years.’

‘Very impressive,’ said Carlyle. He knew nothing much about religion and cared less. As far as he was concerned, people could believe what they liked, as long as they didn’t make a song and dance about it and kept within the law. ‘Now that we’ve got that sorted out, it’s time to move the bus.’

‘No.’

Fuck it, Carlyle thought, no more Mr Nice Guy. ‘Move the bus or I will arrest you.’

Clive gave him a look as if he was a hurt puppy, but said nothing.

‘You will go to jail. That means no more Missionary… whatnot Church for you for a long time.’

For the first time, a look of discomfort passed across Clive’s face.

‘They’re all atheists in prison, you know,’ Carlyle continued. ‘They’ll fuck you up the arse every night. God won’t save you then.’

Clive’s bottom lip quivered, but still he remained mute.

So much for psychology, Carlyle thought. Taking half a step forwards, he hit the Perspex so hard his hand hurt. ‘Wait till I get you out of there, you little bastard. Move the fucking bus!’

‘No,’ replied a tiny voice.

‘For fuck’s sake, Clive!’ Seething, Carlyle wheeled away and walked straight into a woman holding a small video camera. She stepped back towards the stairs leading to the upper deck, bringing the camera back up to her face, keeping it focused on Carlyle.

‘What the fuck are you doing?’ Carlyle growled. He wished that he had stayed at the station. The feeling that some kind of cosmic conspiracy was determined to fuck up his day was beginning to eat into his brain. With some effort, he resisted the urge to stick his hand over the lens. The woman took another step backwards towards a ratty-looking bloke, and he realised that they were the pair of ‘tourists’ he had seen outside the bus earlier.

Letting the camera drop to her side, the woman stopped filming. ‘We’re the Daughters of Dismas. We’re recording this protest for our website.’

‘The what?’

‘The Daughters of Dismas,’ the woman repeated slowly. ‘It’s the feminist wing of the Tabernacle Church.’

Carlyle gestured at the man behind her. ‘What’s he doing here then?’