Friday morning. Madrid. The BA charter to Heathrow was at half eight and we were on the apron at eight because Konaté's cut had been re-stripped by Rebecca at the hotel and the airline had wanted documentation.
He had a butterfly stitch above his right eye and the white bandage that Rebecca had put on him in the dressing room at the Wanda was on the table next to his coffee in the BA business cabin, brown with dried blood. He had not thrown it away.
Sakho was opposite him. Rodríguez was three rows back on FaceTime to his agent. Bojan was asleep with his head against the window. Pato was reading a Catalan newspaper Bojan had given him. Sarah was at the front with three laptops open and the in-flight wifi on her phone as a hotspot.
I sat down next to her.
"Daniel."
"Sarah."
"The internet is broken."
"Sorry?"
