Serafín Mardones calls at fourteen minutes past three

Previously: Olalla, the 803's conductor, found the 1998 list in the archive: eighty-seven signatures for a train that never ran.

Nine nights left. At a quarter to seven in the evening, Casilda Trigo, stationmaster at Ribadeña, finally answered the question Olalla Berruezo, conductor of the 803, had left hanging the day before.

"Door to door," she said. "All eighty-seven were collected by Amelia Sanchís, on her own, in eleven days. It is written in the note to the Delegation, look: 'submitted by Mrs Sanchís, schoolmistress.' Now go to work, it is seven o'clock."

Olalla went to work.

At 23:40 the 803 pulled out of Ribadeña with its lights on and fifty-two clean seats. At 23:52, at Sotoclaro, Fermín Aizpún, the driver who retires in nine days, braked without anyone asking him to and opened door one.

A woman of about seventy came aboard in a green raincoat, carrying a stiff plastic handbag, and stood in the aisle until Olalla reached her from the far end of the carriage.

"Rosario Vidán," she said. "Hairdresser. Well, hairdresser until 2014. Nothing now."

"Mrs Vidán, this train does not carry passengers."

"They have explained that to me twice already." She opened the bag and took out one of those envelopes you sealed by licking the flap. "Number twelve."

It was the same thin card, with the station boxes printed in a column: Ribadeña to Puente Alcor, one way, 14 November 1998, unpunched. In the red margin of the list Olalla had read that very afternoon, number twelve read "Vidán Otero, Rosario. Hairdresser. Ermua del Río."

At 00:11 the train braked again. Vallonga still has no light, no ticket office and no place on the control panel, and under the tin canopy stood Amelia Sanchís, a retired schoolmistress from Ribadeña, in the same navy coat as the first night.

She sat down in row four. Rosario Vidán sat down in row six. They did not greet each other, and both behaved as though this were perfectly ordinary.

Olalla planted herself in front of Amelia with the punch in her hand, not using it.

"Mrs Sanchís. You have eighty-seven tickets and nine nights left."

"Eighty-six," said Amelia. "I keep mine separately."

"Eighty-six, then. Nine a night and it comes out exactly, with one to spare. Why bring them to me one at a time?"

Amelia looked out of the window, where at that hour there is nothing to look at.

"Because nine at a time is no use."

"Why is it no use?"

"Ask me another day."

The 803 reached Puente Alcor at 1:36 and set off back at 1:50. Amelia got off at Vallonga at 3:02. Rosario Vidán got off at Sotoclaro at 3:09 and said goodbye with a salon-floor "see you, love" that struck Olalla, on a decommissioned train at three in the morning, as equal parts madness and delight.

At fourteen minutes past three the service telephone rang in the cab.

Fermín looked at it the way you look at a wasp inside the car.

"Only one man calls at this hour," he said.

Serafín Mardones is the operator's head of service: he signs the rosters, he signs the penalties, and he works in an office a hundred and forty kilometres from the line. Olalla picked up.

"Berruezo." The voice was wide awake, not just roused. "I have the 803's door log in front of me. Shall I read you the figures or will you tell me them?"

"You read them to me."

"Four unscheduled door openings at kilometre point thirty-one point two. Nights of the fourteenth, the fifteenth, the seventeenth and tonight. Two of them with a full stop of thirty-one seconds. Kilometre point thirty-one point two is a halt closed in 2011."

"Yes."

"Yes what?"

"Yes, it is a halt closed in 2011."

There were three seconds of nothing.

"Let me explain how this works, Berruezo, because I get the impression you think the train is yours because you are the only one riding it. The company covers the service, the Administration lifts the track on the 31st, and the 803's insurance covers precisely the people the company has authorised to be aboard. Tonight there were two people more than authorised. Which is zero."

"I will put it in the report."

"Do not put it in. Listen to me. On the 31st there is a ceremony: the sub-delegate is coming, the county paper is coming, and a photographer we are paying for is coming. If a single passenger turns up on that train that day, I will not open the file against Aizpún, who retires that same morning and is no use to me, nor against some eighty-year-old lady who would make me look like a monster on the front page." Mardones left one of those administrative pauses made so that they are on the record. "The one who answers for it is you, Berruezo. You are responsible for the on-board service and you sign the report every night."

Olalla stood there with the telephone in her hand and the whole carriage behind her, empty again.

"And one more thing, so you cannot tell me later that I did not warn you," said Mardones. "The nine nights that are left I am going to read one by one, in that same log, at this same hour."