Chapter 9
The room felt familiar, though it was unrecognizable in the dim light. There were no windows or visible fixtures. She couldn’t tell what was giving the room its dark sepia tint.
She continued to look around the seemingly empty space and then down at herself, pulling at the singlet and trackpants that she didn’t remember putting on. Before she could begin to recall what had brought her here, she blinked her eyes to find that she was now sitting in a simple oaken chair in the middle of the room.
She squinted ahead to see a door open. A woman crossed the threshold towards her with a confident stride. She was almost immaculately dressed in business attire. Her blouse was the exception. It was quite notably unbuttoned. Even from the distance she could see the peak of black lace beneath. The woman caught her staring and chuckled, not hiding her amusement for a change.
“Erica?” She heard herself say. “What are you doing here?”
Erica approached closer, but was still standing about a meter away. She didn’t answer the question and began to speak immediately, as if continuing a conversation that had already been happening. “There has to be something I can offer you in return.”
“What?” She asked. “Is this about court? I already told you--.”
“I’m sure we can find a solution that’s mutually beneficial,” Erica rasped hotly into her ear, suddenly far more into her personal space than what would be considered appropriate. “What do you want Franky?”
Franky swallowed. She wanted to speak, she even tried to speak, but found that she could form no words. She looked at Erica with hesitant eyes.
“Show me.”
She saw Erica’sdrapedarms around her shoulders, their mouths dangerously close. She simultaneously wanted to reciprocate her touch, and push her away. She tried to move her hands, but found that, much like her voice, they didn’t seem to work. She looked down to see her hands bound to the chair. They were free before? Weren’t they?
As Erica entered her line of sight again, Franky balked with horror. Erica's blonde hair was matted with blood and bleeding profusely, having spit up on both of their clothing. She staggered backwards as Franky watched a crimson blotter quickly grow larger on Erica’s abdomen.
She tried to get up to help, but was still tied to the chair – immobile. She tried to scream for help, but was still mute.
“I think you know what is and isn’t a good idea, don’t you Doyle?” She heard another voice rumble from behind her. “You wouldn’t want to have to play witness, would you?”
Suddenly, a black gloved hand reached around and tightly covered her mouth. They stifled the scream that her lungs now allowed.
-
Franky awoke with a start, a cold sweat up and down her body. She breathed heavily, trying to gather her surroundings. She knew she was in a bed. There was a ceiling fan humming above her and a digital clock flashing 4:37 AM beside her. She stumbled up into the darkness, knowing that there must be an en-suite somewhere.
She quickly splashed her face and gazed at her reflection in the mirror, suddenly feeling nauseous as tired green eyes stared back. She moved towards the toilet and began dry-heaving.
A knock on the door. “Franky, hon, you alright?” It was Bridget. She was at Bridget’s.
“Yeah...” she muttered, the upper-half of her body splayed over the toilet, while her legs were a crumpled mess on the floor. “Might’ve been the pho,” she lied.
Bridget frowned, her ear on the door. She had eaten the same as Franky for dinner that night. They had decided to try the new Vietnamese restaurant that opened nearby. “Let me get you a glass of water.” She jiggled the knob of the door, only to find it locked.
“I’ll be fine, just give a second,” Franky said. She watched the knob rattle, thankful for the moment of privacy. It was just a dream. It was just a dream.
It had been quite some time since she'd had to repeat that mantra to herself.
- - -
“Rough night?” Erica would ask a bit later that morning. She had set down both cups of coffee on the small table, before settling into the chair opposite of a still exhausted looking Franky Doyle.
Franky held the warm cup between her hands. She was grateful that her bizarre dream hadn’t included visions of monsters in the foam of flat whites. That would’ve made it much more difficult to enjoy. “Yeah, bad dream,” she said with a bashful look. “I used to have them all the time, but this was the first one in awhile.” She paused, running her finger around the edge of the mug. “It was particularly vivid...”
Erica eyed her carefully across the table. “Do you want to talk about it?” she allowed, hesitant if she and Franky were ever at the point where she could ask that question.
“Not really,” she smiled grimly. “Maybe some other time.”
Erica nodded, though she was not satisfied with the answer. She knew enough not to push Franky when she was in one of her moods, at least not right now. She stumbled awkwardly into the next subject. “Well despite that, thank you for finding the time to meet on such short notice. I know you’re not due in for a few more days, and I wanted to talk to you before then.” Outside the office of prying ears, apparently.
“You know some people talk on the phone,” Franky grinned. She looked animated for the first time.
Erica smiled at this. “I wanted to see you,” she said honestly. Her most recent span of meetings hadn’t sat well with her. It seemed that Theresa and Jim continued to imply that Franky was simply to be used as a pawn for the prosecution and Erica’s role was being defined by them less as “senior solicitor”, and more as “Franky-wrangler”. She didn’t like that, least of all because she didn’t like being told what to do. At least, that was the half-truth she was sticking with.
As a result, she had decided that maybe it wouldn’t hurt to start being a little more honest about her intentions with and concerning Franky Doyle (which was certainly not the easiest endeavor to begin with). That belied, after all, its own personal dangers.
“Oh, Miss Davidson,” Franky gave a rakish snigger. Who knew that being able to tease Erica would make her feel even a hair better? It was certainly better than seeing her favorite solicitor as a bloody heap on the floor.
Erica shook her head, pretending to look annoyed at Franky’s amusement, but failing. “Seriously.” She almost reached out to cover Franky’s hand. Almost. “It’s about the case.”
“Erica, I’m not--,” Franky began to say, before being quickly cut off.
“Let me finish,” she interrupted. “For a change, I want to tell you what’s happening so you’re in the loop.” She grimaced self-consciously. “Those actually in charge of the case have decided that your testimony would be more than valuable for this trial. I happen to agree.”
Franky again began to protest, but was once more halted by Erica. This time with a silent hand.
“However. I don’t want to put you in that situation, if that’s not what you want,” Erica said. “I know that I’ve made you do things you didn’t necessarily want to do, and may have...” she paused, swallowing her words. “...taken advantage of your trust.”
“Erica, wait,” Franky was finally able to get a word in. “Almost everything you had asked me to do at Wentworth, I did because I wanted to.” They locked eyes. “That doesn’t mean that I didn’t often see through your scheming bullshit.” She grinned, as Erica looked away with an embarrassed blush.
Erica offered a timid smile in return. “Well, this isn’t a scheme. I want to do the right thing by you this time.”
“Only this one time?”
She rolled her eyes. Would Franky ever let her be sincere for more than a moment? “I still hope that you change your mind about testifying but, the crowns can think whatever they want of me for now.” Hopefully her scoff wasn’t too apparent. “What I will ask you to do, is help me go through the list of witnesses to find equally, if not more, effective testimony.”
Franky nodded, her eyes smiling. “I can do that.” Though, in the back of her mind she hoped that Erica truly didn’t have any ulterior motives – like slithering her way back into good graces simply for the benefit of the prosecution. How do I know that I can really trust you again?
She found herself willing to take that chance.
* * *
Erica looked away from her monitor with a quizzical expression. “Who?”
“Vinegar-tits,” Franky repeated, tapping the list of potential witnesses on Erica’s desk. “She and the Freak had some sort of thing, but I reckon she hates her even more than I do now.” She chuckled. It was always easier to laugh about Wentworth now that she was far from its gates.
“I honestly have no idea who you’re talking about,” Erica stated with a bemused smile. “She must’ve been after my time. Was she an inmate?” She reached over to nab the witness list from Franky so that she could have a look for herself.
“No way! Wait...” Franky laughed, suddenly realizing that the nickname hadn’t presented itself until well after Erica’s tenure at the prison. “That’s what we started to call Miss Bennett—Vera.”
Erica raised her eyebrows, immediately trying to stifle a snorted laugh into her hand.
(Franky was always more than delighted when witnessing an actually organic response from Erica Davidson; this laugh was one of those occasions.)
“How did she--,” Erica began to ask. She was still trying to reconcile how the mousy Vera Bennett she remembered was awarded such a moniker. “You know what, I don’t want to know.” She muttered, with an eye roll, “I can only imagine what sorts of names you and the staff gave me”.
She was referring to the “general you”, not specifically Franky Doyle, but that wasn’t about to stop the former inmate for taking the opportunity to twist words as she saw fit.
“I can’t say about the screws or the other girls,” Franky drawled. “But I may have had a few names for you.”
Erica frowned. “As I said, I can only imagine,” she said dryly. She had made it a point to practice trying not to get flustered. Unfortunately, she couldn’t will away the flush that started just below her collarbone and was making its way up to her cheeks.
“I’m sure you did.”
“We’re not doing this right now,” Erica said dismissively. She turned her attention back to the computer screen in front of her, scrolling back through archived information regarding Joan Ferguson’s first attempted trial. She found it curious that Ferguson was some how deemed psychologically fit to be released into gen-pop while incarcerated.
“Maybe we can do it later then.” She couldn’t resist trying to get a rise out of Erica. The lack of any further response meant the solicitor clearly wasn’t keen to play. Apparently when Erica said that they were going to be getting to work on the trial, she really meant it – no kidding around (for more than a few seconds, anyway). Franky should have known. Go figure.
“Did you know the psychologist who is on staff at the prison?” Erica asked. “I still can’t seem to find records of Ferguson’s initial evaluations from while she was at Thomas Embling or even later at St. Vincent’s. I know she definitely would have been evaluated by someone once she got to Wentworth. It’d be helpful to get those notes and their perspective.”
Franky knew it was an innocent question. Erica wouldn’t, couldn’t, have known otherwise. As a lawyer, she was simply trying to gather information regarding the trial. That’s why they were continuing to meet, even outside office hours, right? Just for the trial.
But still... Was this point where she was supposed to reveal that she was more than simply “familiar” with the prison’s forensic psychologist?