Pressing people's buttons used to be Franky's favourite pastime, but she isn't at the top of the pecking order anymore and stirring up trouble isn't as much fun as it used to be. Booms is still blanking her, Liz is convinced she's trying to corrupt her precious fucking daughter, and Kim wouldn't piss on her if she was on fire. Franky should have known her former lover would go all Fatal Attraction on her ass once she broke things off, but she never suspected Kim would get herself thrown back in here just for the sake of another shag. Franky knows she's good, but shit, she didn't think she was that good. She's almost tempted to fuck Kim one last time, just to escape her unrelenting glare and maybe work off some pent-up frustration - at least that way she can stop sleeping with one eye open - but instead she's saving herself for a woman she can probably never have, like some kind of lovesick teenager.
She's trying her damnedest not to get too hung up on Bridget, because God knows she's been burned enough times before, but she's sick of going through the motions and scratching an itch that never really goes away. She isn't craving sex, she's craving a connection – someone she can talk to without compromising her intelligence, someone she can be honest with without fearing the repercussions. Erica came close, but in the end she screwed her over like every fucker else. That kiss wasn't supposed to taste like a bitter-sweet victory, it wasn't supposed to feel like a struggle, but Erica was never going to willingly relinquish her power. In the end, she was just some bi-curious closet case who wanted to take a walk on the wild side, and now she's obviously too busy trying to re-build her high-flying career to give Franky a second thought. All that anticipation and no pay off, but Franky's learnt to roll with the punches. Erica was just another lesson in why it doesn't pay to get too invested in anyone, but that doesn't stop some defective part of her brain from hoping against hope. She tells herself that Bridget's different, that she isn't imagining the spark of affection in her eyes or the way her gaze always lingers for a little too long, that she isn't misjudging the situation and mistaking professional courtesy for genuine concern, but she knows it'll all go to hell in a hand basket either way. It always does.
Their hour-long sessions might feel like a fleeting life-line for now, but they aren't enough to sustain Franky once she's back in the snake pit. She's bored shitless and the loneliness is starting to eat away at her. She sees Kim and Booms laughing together in the yard (probably at her expense); Liz and Jess cooing over Doreen's baby bump, and everyone falling over themselves to kiss Queen Bea's ass, and she realises the lifelong friends she thought she'd made in this place are just as fucking fickle as everyone else. She can't really blame Booms for ditching her, though. When it came to the crunch she took the coward's way out, so maybe Boomer's right – maybe she didn't deserve her friendship in the first place. Self-preservation is the only way she knows how to survive in this place, but it's a poor fucking excuse.
Sophie's her only ally now, but she's just a confused kid who doesn't know her ass from her elbow. Teaching her the ropes gives Franky something halfway noble to do, even if she occasionally gets side tracked with showing her a good time, and she tries not to let Liz's disapproval hurt too much. Apparently Franky isn't the kind of woman parents want their kids to hang out with, even if their only other role model is a self-pitying alkie.
Still, with her parole hearing looming, Franky's starting to realise the importance of flying under the radar. She camps out in the library most of the time, devouring legal textbooks like they're her salvation, as though reading case law will magically help her withstand the cross-examination she's bound to be subjected to by the parole board. She spends half her time thinking about Bridget, and half her time desperately trying not to.
When Ferguson summons her to her office one dismal Tuesday afternoon, Franky gets that familiar feeling of trepidation. She wants nothing more than to see the twisted bitch go down, but when faced with that stony mask and maddening smirk, it's hard not to wonder if Bea's bitten off more than she can chew, especially after what happened with Jodie.
"Doyle, you seem to have been keeping a remarkably... low profile... lately."
Franky hates the way Ferguson drags out her words in that condescending tone, but she manages to curl her lips into a cocky smile regardless.
"Well, you know me, Governor. Butter wouldn't melt."
The Freak's eyebrows raise slightly, showcasing her scepticism.
"On the contrary, I get the impression that you're simply biding your time until the parole board comes to town."
No shit, Sherlock.
"Nah, I've turned over a new leaf," Franky informs her, tongue firmly in cheek. "No more sex, drugs and rock 'n' roll. Guides' honour."
"Well, that's good, Doyle, because I would hate for anything to jeopardise your chances of release."
"Yeah, you're really rooting for me, aren't cha? I can tell."
Franky knows when she's being threatened, and her eyes narrow slightly as she tries to figure out what angle Ferguson's trying to play this time.
"Well, that's up to you," Ferguson reasons, doing a piss-poor imitation of geniality. "I would, of course, be happy to speak in your favour - "
"Look, save me the 'you scratch my back and I'll scratch yours' bullshit, OK? You hung me out to dry, Ferguson," Franky reminds her, "So you're gonna have to find someone else to do your dirty work from now on." Franky can't resist making one final jab, and her eyes glint with malice as she remarks, "Looks like Jodie didn't work out too well for you, huh?"
For a second, there's an imperceptible shift in Ferguson's steely demeanour, and her stoic facade gives way to barely-suppressed fury. Franky watches as the Governor swallows, rapidly regaining her composure.
"Yes, well, it's clear that Miss Spiterri had some serious mental health issues that I didn't foresee. Isolation obviously didn't agree with her."
Franky can barely contain her snort of disbelief. "Yeah, right. Because we all know it was the slot that sent her stir crazy."
"What I'm more concerned about is that our esteemed psychologist didn't seem to pick up on the warning signs," Ferguson laments, and at the mention of Bridget, Franky folds her arms defensively.
"Well, neither did I, and Jodes and I were... pretty tight, if you know what I mean."
Franky tries to subvert the conversation with a lascivious smile that reveals exactly how up close and personal she and Jodie used to get, but Ferguson's having none of it.
"Then you must be as outraged as I am that Miss Westfall failed her with such...catastrophic consequences."
"Are you for real?" Franky asks incredulously. "I heard you sneak into her cell, Ferguson. I know you weren't tucking her in and reading her a bedtime story. There was nothing wrong with that poor kid until you started screwing with her head."
Ferguson doesn't even react to her words, she just carries on as if Franky has been listening attentively the whole time.
"Miss Westfall has a duty of care to the women she treats, but I'm becoming increasingly concerned about her capabilities." Ferguson lets out a derisive sound, which sounds almost like a guffaw. "She was actually naïve enough to believe Smith's cock and bull story about being attacked in the yard, and I won't have her sending my staff on wild goose chases, checking CCTV footage for evidence they're never going to find."
"So you don't think it's a little too convenient, that Bea flips her shit right before Jodie's hearing?" Franky demands, meeting Ferguson's unflinching gaze with her characteristic defiance.
"I'm not sure if I like what you're insinuating, Doyle."
Franky opens her mouth to argue back, but then thinks better of it, knowing that she's treading a fine line that she can't afford to cross.
"Whatever." She exhales audibly, holding up her hands in an unspoken question. "So are you gonna tell me what you dragged me in here for, or what?"
"Miss Westfall is a liability. She's more concerned with befriending the women than acting in their best interests," Ferguson observes, almost as if she believes every blasphemous word that she's saying. "The girls run riot in her workshops, and from what I can see, none of them take her seriously. I believe that her judgement and her ethics have been compromised, but I'm sure..." Ferguson's eyes take on a diabolical sparkle as she mulls over her next words, "I'm sure you'd know that better than most people, wouldn't you, Doyle?"
In spite of vowing to bite her tongue only a matter of seconds ago, Franky's hackles are instantly raised.
"I don't know what you're talking about," she says lowly, standing to her full height and squaring off against Ferguson to drive home her point. "So she cares about making a difference, so what? Just because she hasn't got a stick wedged up her ass doesn't mean she isn't good at her job. She has more integrity in her little finger than any of the dipshit screws around here."
"Such loyalty, Doyle," Ferguson drawls, and now she's smirking in a way that makes Franky's guts coil with apprehension, "If only Miss Westfall afforded you the same courtesy. I hear you've been making a lot of progress in therapy. In fact, I believe you've made some quite… startling revelations... some of which are beyond the remit of patient confidentiality. After all, there are certain things you can't just…sweep under the carpet."
Franky tries not to react, tries not to let the sting of guilt and betrayal register on her features, but her stomach plummets to the floor and she can feel the colour draining from her face. She shifts on her feet, shaking her head violently as she tries not to jump to the obvious conclusion.
"I don't..." Franky can hear the tremor in her tone, so she takes a moment to moisten her lips, struggling to hold it together. Her mouth's as dry as sawdust when she finally manages to string a coherent sentence together. "I told you, Ferguson, I don't have a clue what you're banging on about, so how about you stop talking in riddles and get to the fucking point?"
"I'd just hate for this to have an adverse effect on your parole," The Freak continues, undeterred. "I mean, grievous bodily harm is bad enough, but add murder to the mix, and you're looking at another, what, 10-15 years? Maybe you'll even join Smith on the lifer's program. I'm sure she'd be glad of the company."
Franky reaches for the chair in front of her, clutching the backrest until her knuckles turn white. Her breathing sounds ragged, even to her own ears, but she forces herself to meet Ferguson's knowing gaze.
"Look, I don't know what that bitch told you, but if she's making out like I confessed to killing someone, she's fucking crazy. Like I'm going to bare my soul to some budget shrink in a fancy suit."
"That's what I thought," Ferguson says, in a tone that's half-amused and half-pitying, "Because you'd have to be incredibly stupid to think that someone would risk their job to keep your confidence. You can't honestly believe that Miss Westfall cared about your welfare more than her own credibility? You're nothing to her in the big scheme of things, Doyle, and deep down, you must know that."
The words hit home like a rocket launcher straight to the heart, but Franky stuffs her hands into her pockets, trying not to show how much they hurt.
"It's her word against mine, she can't prove anything."
"But who do you think the parole board's going to believe, Doyle?" Ferguson sneers, and she's clearly relishing the look of wounded helplessness on Franky's face. "Of course, they don't necessarily have to know about Miss Westfall's...incriminating...accusations, and if she somehow...misinterpreted the situation..."
"Cut the crap, Ferguson," Franky spits out, and that familiar feeling of disassociated numbness is starting to wash over her, "What do you want me to do?"
Ferguson doesn't even bother to hide the fact that she had an ulterior motive all along.
"I want you to sign a statement attesting to the fact that Miss Westfall has made inappropriate advances towards you. Miss Bennett has already brought your somewhat...unorthodox...relationship to my attention and I'm sure you'll agree that it isn't appropriate for someone to abuse their authority, especially when they're in a position of trust – "
Franky's jaw works overtime as she swallows her natural instinct to refuse, because really, what has she got to lose? How could she have been such an idiot? How could she have trusted Bridget to keep her promise when everyone she's ever known has thrown her to the wolves? Bridget knew her freedom was at stake, she knew there would be no coming back from this, but she kicked her to the curb anyway. Now she's just another colossal fucking disappointment to add to the seemingly never-ending list. Franky's starting to wonder how many more she can take, but she's only got herself to blame. She shouldn't have opened up when every rational part of her brain was screaming at her not to, she shouldn't have let another fucking woman with a cracked moral compass chip away at her veneer of control.
"OK, I'll do it," she eventually hisses through clenched teeth, and now her mind's working overtime and her blood's boiling with the need to confront Bridget, because if the treacherous bitch thinks she can play her for a fool, she's sure as hell going to make her pay for it. "On one condition."
"Oh?" The Freak asks, looking surprised that Franky would even dare to bargain with her.
"That you let me speak to her first."
Ferguson smiles, like she's preparing to unleash a monster of her own making. "Consider it done."
Franky nods her understanding, and she manages to hold back the tears of anger and betrayal until she swivels on her heel and makes for the door. Still, Ferguson's next words stop her in her tracks.
"Be careful how you tread Franky, because if you overstep the mark again, I can't help you."