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The till clicks back into place as the bell rings, the sign that someone has come in, I look up expectantly. A young woman stalks inside; her face is drawn and pale. Her dark mascara is smudged and her brown hair hangs limply over her shoulders, her whole posture is limp and lifeless. She stares at her filthy converses dejectedly. She doesn't look any older than 16, her outfit is designer, but unwashed. She looks a wreck.
I ask her if she wants anything, 'Two Budweiser's, please', she mutters at her shoes.
I raise an eyebrow at this, '-for my boyfriend', the hasty reply, one of the oldest in the book. I've been through this a hundred times, being behind the counter can give you a couple of tips on how to deal with it.
She gestures reluctantly outside, some punk leaning on the railing, he spits something that looks suspiciously like gum out onto the tarmac, crushes it into the floor. He glances down at his Rolex, then impatiently at the girl; she flinches and turns back to me.
There are dark circles under her eyes, and her face is almost yellow in the tacky lighting, I can see that she is shaking; I can almost smell the fear in the air, the tension.
Boldly I gesture to him, 'Is that him?'
She nods hesitantly, looking back to the floor.
'Well, I'll have to ask for ID, no drinking 'till you're over 21, sorry kiddo'.
She gulps, looking terrified, 'Please', she whispers, I have to lean closer to hear her, the boyfriend is starting to come over, 'my name's Natalie, his name's Dan, please, I have to get him the beer', her eyes are wild, and her words have a feverish edge to them, 'He'll hurt me if I don't, then call someone, anyone, tell them what's going on, please!'
I hesitate, then get two cans from the grotty fridge behind the counter, 'that'll be £4.50, hun'' I say loud enough for the boyfriend to hear. She hands him the Budweiser, he puts an arm around her waist and they walk away.
But not before I see the syringe, it glints once in the dull light above the desk. I know what it means now, like I knew as I reached for the phone.
I knew the number.
Everyone knows the number.
The police arrived within the hour; I gave them the details of the couple, their names. They took it from there.
Daniel was imprisoned for 15 years, for forcefully injecting his girlfriend- Natalie with black tar heroin over the course of 12 weeks. Natalie was sent into rehab.
Now I understand the wild look in her eyes, the feverishness, the fear and confusion- and the limpness in her right arm as she picked up the beers, most likely from the marks that the syringe had made.
She was addicted.