The red-and-white bus pulled out of the stadium car park at a quarter past midnight.
Outside, the rain had returned, a fine, cold drizzle that smeared the streetlights into long gold streaks.
Police motorcycles flanked the bus on both sides, their blue lights sweeping rhythmically across the wet road.
Behind the metal barriers at the edge of the car park, a small crowd of red and white scarves had gathered, a few hundred supporters who had waited in the rain after the match to see their team leave, and as the bus rolled past, they lifted their voices in song.
It was not the roaring chant of earlier. It was low, rough and slow, a ragged, lovely hymn that rose and fell through the drizzle like the tide.
Unai pressed his forehead to the window. A small white dressing was still taped to his temple, and in his lap sat a plastic bag of lemon candies. He lifted one hand and pressed it flat against the glass, and a cheer went up from the barrier.
