Never Apologise, Never Explain - James Craig [49]
‘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?’
‘Stuart is