© Denise Mina

It was one of those amazing times when things seem like they were meant. I saw the signs and read them. I was looking for a future, for signs, because my mind was confused. They'd made me say bad things about Carol.. My three months in the village was the first time since her that I'd been alone with my thoughts, allowed to pore over the memory of her, the texture of her voice.

The first amazing thing happened three days after I came to stay in the village; there had been a big storm the night before and the next day the sea started spewing up fire. We watched it through the loading bay doors at lunch time. Bubbles of orange and blue fire burst on the surface of the jaggy, grey sea. They were incredibly beautiful. The odds against it happening just as I came, just as I was looking for signs, were so long it had to mean something. I watched them and knew they were there for me. The guys at work even commented on it. 'You've brought them with ye, Tam.' I smiled, giving them what they expected. I wanted their attention away from me. I don't like being watched, being seen. I'm not mental, just private.

They explained the fires on the radio; sixty years before, a Nazi, submarine was in trouble and started dipping just outside the harbour. The crew panicked and dumped a load of fire bombs, afraid they'd go off on board if they hit the bottom. The bombs were heavy, they were wrapped in cast iron jackets, and they tumbled down a hill under the water, tumbling into a deep, dark valley. They nestled in the valley, miles under the sea. Then I arrived and big Summer storms blew out of nothing just as the cast iron was rotten enough to snap and let go. The undertow sucked the bombs out of their casings and along the dark valley, setting them free. The bombs flew to the surface, like bubbles in ginger, hissing damp, tired old flames over the surface, and then they died, fulfilled at last. They'd waited under the water for fifty years, keeping quiet, waiting for their time to come. I know what it takes to do that. The bombs meant that my time was coming. I would pass my test. I would drive through the Summer valley.

No one in the village liked the bombs except for me. The fishermen said they were a pain in the arse, they had to watch out for the fires on the surface and steer around them. The village was losing money as well because the tourists only came for day trips that year. They watched the bombs burst for a while but then left and drove down the coast to the prettier towns and spent their money there. An MOD unit went down to see how many bombs were left and one of the men got his breathing stuff caught on a rock. He was dead when they brought him to the surface.

I was working in the soap factory, loading boxes into the vans. The big wooden doors looked out to sea and every time there had been a storm the workers gathered around the door, eating their lunch, watching the bombs and complaining about them. They came back every time there was a storm, knowing the bombs would be there, missing their lunch hour to watch them and moan. I didn't join in, I kept to myself, but my heart swelled whenever I heard them phut and sizzle or saw the flashes of brilliant light defying the grey consensus. Every bomb was a reminder that my time was coming, that soon I would pass my test and buy my van. I'd drive my van through the Summer valley with my hand resting on the wheel, warmed by the sun.

I go on about driving the van, I lalow I do, but it means so much to me. I only got to drive my van for a few days but I still dream about it, even after what happened, even when the other meaning is so clear. I'll tell ye the dream. I'm driving a small van through a valley in the country, by a river; sometimes I'm listening to the radio, sometimes I'm not. My arm is straight out in front of me holding the wheel, loose like, as if I've had a long drive and my arms are tired. It's a small van but there's a cabin behind me, a private space so that I can lie down if I need to, if it gets dark. I know I won't need to stop anywhere or see anyone and I can move on whenever I need to. The first time I had the dream was about. . . six years? . . . six odd years into the last sentence, the long one I got for taking Carol's gift. I love it. I feel happy for hours when I've had that dream. I could lie about it, I can tell ye I'm sorry I dream it, that it makes me sick, but they can't add time on to forever so what's the point? I love my dream.

At the soap factory someone told the foreman I was taking driving lessons. He came up to me in front of the other men in the loading bay and told me he would never give me a driving job because I'd been in prison. He stared at me and sucked his teeth and then he walked away. He meant to shame me but he didn't. I turned away and smiled to myself, not letting the others see. He didn't know what I'd been in for, if he knew he'd've said it, he was that kind of man. And best of all, if he didn't know what I'd been in for, then no one else knew either, Constable Hay didn't tell them. Hay's eyes were heavy and sad when he saw me. He knew my Gran and I suppose he shut up for her sake. I didn't care as long as he kept it to hisself.

I was allowed to move to the village because my people were from there. My mother moved away when she heard I was coming and Gran died soon after I arrived. They offered me her house but it was too big and had a garden. I couldn't manage a big place. I'd been inside too long. They got me a single room in Mr MacCallum's house.

They got me the job in the soap factory. It was a good job except for the smell of soap; it was terrible. It got up my nose and settled at the bridge, making my eyes water. When I blew my nose at the end of a day the hankie would be full of stinking silver stuff. Everyone who worked there smelled of soap but the ones who worked the factory floor smelt the worst. If I touched the walls in the factory or sat down anywhere the smell stuck to me. On windy days the smell covered the town and only the rain could deaden it.

I made £120 a week at the job. Mr MacCallum got thirty quid, ten went on smoke, fifteen on food, thirty on driving lessons (two a week) and the rest of it went into the bank where it stayed until the day I bought my van.

Because Hay kept his mouth shut the people at the factory didn't know' anything about me. I was a big city mystery, a country boy gone to live in Glasgow with his father when he was eleven, and they knew my mother's people. It was a good few weeks before I was spotted going to sign my slip at Hay's house. When the guys at work asked me about it I told them I'd been done for armed robbery. They believed me. They treated me better afterwards, treated me with respect, and some of the women tried to talk to me. One lunch time the foreman gave me a fag. He said to come to the pub after work with the rest of them. I said mibbie but I didn't go. I'm private.

Just after that the wages guy took me aside during a fag break. He told me about Diane and her family. He said that she was a widow and she fancied me, I should ask her out. That lunch time I saw her looking at me. The others were crowded around the bay doors watching the bombs go off and I looked up and saw her watching me slyly, keeping her face seawards, sliding her red excited eyes towards me. I didn't know what to do. It was a long time since I'd spoken to a woman and I was shy of them. I still am shy of them. It doesn't matter now, I don't think I'll ever meet another one.

It was only a week until my final driving test and I already had a hundred quid on a second hand van in Grath's. I wanted to asked Diane to go out with me; she had a job and she didn't go with a lot of men so she wasn't a slag or anything. I could've asked her out to the pub but then we would have to talk to each other. I didn't know what to do until one night when I was walking home from work. I leaned on the harbour wall and looked up. I looked at that exact spot at exactly the right time and I saw two bombs arrive at the surface at exactly the same time. They bobbed on the sea for a breath's length and then exploded at the same time their flames touching. It was dark and the coloured flames were amazing against the water; they took my breath away, they were so close. I stayed by the wall, watching until they died and when I lit a fag, my hands were shaking. And that was another sign. I knew it would be alright with Diane.

The day after I saw the two bombs Diane came over to me and asked me to go to the pictures with her. I managed to say ëaye' and she smiled at me, making me blush more, and walked away. The bombs were right. It was okay. I was reading the signs right this time and that got me thinking, maybe I'd always been reading the signs right.

I was looking forward to going out with Diane and a night at the pictures was perfect because we wouldn't need to speak much. I was still thinking about Carol. I couldn't decide what I thought about it, my mind was still messed up by the stuff they'd told us in the group. But the signs proved themselves true this time; it was a confusing time.

I didn't think I'd miss that group but I did. The other guys said I was lucky to be getting out, to get away from the group helpers, and I thought so too but I missed the men, missed being with them and talking to them. We had our own special group in that prison, we had our own special everything because we couldn't mix with the other prisoners. They called us filth and attacked us. They threatened to kill us and they meant it too, they killed one of our old guys. He was in the showers and some guys stabbed him. They announced it in group and told us to be more careful. I felt sad about it, which was funny because I didn't know him much. I know the others were sad too, even if they didn't say it. It was as if we had all died a bit. I kept his glasses, to remember him. I don't think anyone else will remember him, he never had a letter or visitors. The other prisoners hated us but I couldn't see how we were different. We all took things we shouldn't have.

No one gives a shit about us, not the wives that wait or the relatives that visit and pretend it was all lies or the helpers at the group. My own Mum doesn't visit me or send me food or write me letters or phone me. She came to see me once after Carol and it was all heartbreak, shame and godforgive wicked evil man that child that child. I can understand why she said it now, since the group, but I'm her own son for God's sake. If she was going to pick sides I think it should have been mine. I suppose she's read the papers and knows what happened this time. I'd refuse to see her if she came now.

I missed that group. Sometimes I would lie in bed at Mr MacCallum's and think about the guys in the group. I liked it best when the others talked, not me. I'm private but that wasn't allowed. They asked me about Carol, making me tell them what happened over and over, asking how she died. The questions were stupid, we all worked out that we had to tell the story a special way or we'd be in trouble. I've seen stupid men telling the story the wrong way. The helpers went for them, said they were in denial and asked more horrible questions. We all hated the helpers. They weren't bad people, they just didn't understand about us. We understood each other in ways they couldn't fathom. I remember Jamie telling a story in the wrong way. He wasn't stupid, he did it for badness. He wanted to wind them up and it worked as well. It was a story about creeping through the house at night, about hands on skin, about smells from hair. He could make you feel as if you were there. Ages before the helpers realised and stopped him the rest of us were grinning at each other and laughing. We knew how he was telling the story. We knew. Jamie wouldn't lie to please them.

I listened to the things they said in group. I didn't like it, it made me uncomfortable, especially at first. It was all about denial and admitting the damage you had done and changing your behaviour, changing your thinking. They made me talk about Carol and telling them made me lie about what had happened between us. I had to tell our story the way they wanted to hear it or lose remission. But Carol, my Carol, I was betraying her, I told lies about her and about myself and about what happened. As I denounced myself I was denouncing Carol's gift because I read her signs> the looks from her and her touch, the clothes she wore and the truth was that I didn't take her life, Carol gave it to me.

I stopped lying to myself about Carol the night I went to the pictures with Diane. We went to see a film about a pig and she invited me back to her house. I was nervous because my driving test was in a couple of days and Diane smelled of soap so much it made me sneeze. Nothing happened between us, which was good. She cooked us some oven chips. She had three sons and a daughter called Morag and Morag was my next sign.

At work Diane came over to talk to me, to wish me good luck because my driving test was in the afternoon. Some of the other women were watching and giggling. She was very flirty, trying to be sexy with me. She wasn't like that when we were alone and I preferred it when she wasn't. She touched my hand and the smell of soap stuck to me. I couldn't eat my sandwiches because of her smell.

I sat my driving test. I passed it. First time. I went home to Mr MacCallum's and sat on the end of the bed. If I'd believed in God I would have given thanks but I don't. The feelings built up inside me, growing and growing until I thought I would burst. Outside of the window a storm was brewing, a thick dark storm, the worst storm of the whole Summer, and the rain smashed against the wee window in my room. I couldn't believe it. I remember I sat on my bed and smoked a fag to stop myself from crying. My dream was coming true, the signs were every- where, I could drive anywhere. Outside, the storm windows were slam- ming shut on the houses all over the village. I couldn't hold it in any more. I crept out of the house through the back door and climbed up to the hills overlooking the sea. I climbed further than walking distance, up to where I was scrabbling on scree; I wanted to get as high up as possible.

When I finally stopped and sat down the rain was thinner and I felt very warm from the effort. I took off my coat to cool down. I rolled a cigarette and by the time I lit it I was smiling because I knew what I was really there for. I was out of denial now.

I looked out to sea and saw the bombs going off; there were so many, the water was covered with fire of all colours, far off into the horizon, like a million Viking funerals. My time had come. I undid my fly and slipped my hand inside. And then I wasn't sitting on the side of the rainy hill, I was driving my red van from Grath's, driving through a valley in the Summer with my private space in the back. My arm was tired because r d been driving for a while and maybe I was smoking I don't know. I could feel the warm sun on my arm and next to me on the seat was little Morag, not yet crying, not yet afraid, and the smell of soap was far far behind us both.