"Excuse me", I say to the young woman, as she moves to one side of the counter, and I place my ready meal down in front of the shopkeeper and then begin to think about all of the dead, dried skin on there, a look of disgust spreading on my face, as I turn to look at the young woman. She chews on her lip, arms still crossed, adjusting her weight onto her other foot now, and sending her handbag to bump against me as I move back and step away. She's crying as she stares at the shopkeeper.

“Has he hit you again?", the shopkeeper asks.

The powerful strip lights above have made us all visible, here in this late-night corner shop in Smethwick. The cold green light, painting us in its gaze and revealing us all for who we are, nothing is hidden here in night court.

The young woman shakes her head from one side to the other slowly. "No, no, he hasn’t", she whispers back, as she caresses her left arm with her hand. She is rubbing it up and down as if soothing a past pain. Looking like a little girl as she shakes her head no.

There's a beep, and my thoughts break as the shopkeeper gives me the price: £3.97. For a moment I wonder why it’s 97 and not 99p. Then, instinctively, I throw the warm change, which has been in the palm of my hand all this time, into her outstretched hand. I look back at the young woman from my ring-side seat, and at her hand which wipes at her face, while her head lowers and lank brown hair falls like a curtain to end this scene.

"How’s the baby?", the shopkeeper asks, “is she teething now?

5/7