Page 7 of Last Track

Martin's kitchen light went out a few seconds later.

Galen noticed and told himself there was nothing in it.

4

MARTIN

Martin had stayed in the kitchen because the accounts needed doing.

That was the explanation he gave himself while he checked the same column twice, corrected a figure that had been right the first time, and listened to the faint movement of guitar strings travelling across the hard standing from Galen's van. The cottage walls were thick, the windows shut against the cold, and Nina was parked far enough away that the music reached him softened at the edges. It still found its way in.

Galen was not playing a song from beginning to end. He worked at it in pieces, repeating a run of notes until Martin began to recognise where the hesitation came, then slowing the passage and building it again. There was no audience to charm and no room to carry. The music had the private, practical quality of someone repairing something with his hands.

Martin put down his pencil. The same four bars came once, twice, and then a third time with the movement settled cleanly into place. Martin felt the resolution in his chest before he could name what he was hearing. A few moments later, Galen muted the strings.

Martin waited long enough to make switching off the kitchen light appear unrelated. He slept badly and blamed the Suffolk ewe.

By morning, his list had expanded without permission. He needed to check the ewe, speak to Peter, replace the broken hurdle, clear the feed store before Friday's delivery, and make certain Galen reached the farmhouse by seven before Jacks sent someone to collect him.

Condensation clouded Nina's windows. The van remained silent for another minute, then the side door opened and Galen stepped down into the cold, hair loose, jumper pulled on crookedly, and boots unlaced at the top. He looked less like the striking stranger who had appeared in Martin's field and more like a man who had slept in a cupboard by choice and knew exactly where everything inside it belonged. Martin found both versions equally unnerving.

Galen shut Nina carefully and fell into step beside him. He showed no stiffness from the previous afternoon beyond a brief roll of one shoulder and was alert despite the cold and the hour. Martin had expected some sign that sleeping in the van was an affectation Galen maintained because it suited the rest of him. Instead, Galen moved through the morning with the ease of someone following a familiar routine in an unfamiliar place.

At the farmhouse, Hazel took one look at him and set coffee at his place before he could sit. Galen thanked her in French, the words easy enough to suggest he had used them more than once to secure breakfast abroad.

"Coward," Martin said.

Galen turned toward him. "You watched that tea attempt to remove my fingerprints."

Jacks came in carrying a folder, heard the end of the exchange, and placed it beside her plate. "If you're discussing my tea, drink faster."

Hazel hid a smile behind her cup. Martin looked down at his toast before Galen could see too much satisfaction on his face, though he suspected the effort had failed. The joke had begun less than a day ago and already possessed the comfortable shape of something repeated.

Galen reached for the marmalade and passed it to Martin without being asked. Martin took it, then noticed he had left the butter within Galen's reach in the same automatic movement. The small exchange should not have registered. It did.

Peter arrived shortly after eight in a van carrying enough tools to suggest he regarded every engine as a personal challenge. He was compact, grey-haired, and sparing with speech, which made Martin trust him more than any mechanic who began a diagnosis by describing his own experience.

Galen met him beside Nina and explained the loss of power, the rising temperature, the smell, and the knock. He gave the information without embellishment and stopped when Peter began looking. Martin leaned against the cottage wall and watched Galen follow the inspection with close attention. He asked sensible questions when Peter invited them and otherwise stayed out of the way.

It was the same pattern Martin had seen in the field. Galen found the person who knew what he was doing, listened, and adjusted himself to the work already underway.

Peter spent twenty minutes inside the engine compartment before straightening with an expression that offered nothing.

"Well?" Galen asked.

"Well, you were right not to start her again."

"I was hoping for something more celebratory."

"You want celebration, buy something built after decimalisation."

Galen glanced toward Martin. "Is everyone here like this?"

"No," Martin said. "Peter's considered friendly."

Peter ignored them. "Could be a valve problem. Could be the start of something dearer. I need her at the workshop where I can open her properly. Trailer can come tomorrow if the axle behaves."

"How long after that?" Galen asked.