The lady in red and the lady in white

I don't trust the police.

I don't like them and I don't trust them.

This is an in-built defence mechanism from a childhood Fran who knows - men in uniforms are not there to save you - they are to deprave you.

At least that was my first experience of the law.

The men in positions of power, there to protect.

Didn't.

They took part in a pass the parcel of a child at the hands of my biological father who served me up to his friends as a party gift to be shared.

My first experience of men - my first experience of men and authority.

Is it any wonder at the age of 36, I loathe the very concept of the systems and the people who uphold them to be honour bound and those whom we seek to protect and wield the hammer of justice on our behalf?

My father, by blood and creation, was a police officer. A disgraced one. Whose short lived career saw him move into a logical side step of entrepreneurship - hustling.

By day, a less than reputable pub landlord, by night, a pimp of women, children; his whores.

Me I suppose.

Sex worker by trade in a later life, honing my skills under the age of 4. What can I say, I'm a natural.

When it comes to abusers and my magnetic ability to find them, I've never been far from the suffering of male sexuality and it's horrors.

I sat in a packed room of women a few weeks ago, to celebrate International Women's Day; earlier that day, I had had the honour of being the one at the front, sharing my story, of inspiration some say, and perhaps I feel that too when I recount and recall all that came before the prison, the rise and fall and the climb and crawl back to reality, normality and hope.

As I spoke, I locked eyes with a woman and she looked angry and at the time, whilst in the flow of my speech, I thought - "well, I'm not for everyone," - and I'm not. I know that, there is an air of distaste in thebarkerbaker bouncing back with a story of triumph over adversity, I live with that in my heart, I know. But this woman - beautiful, but fiery eyes, I could feel it.

I continued with my speech, the eyes softened and I was relieved; acceptance.

Later that day, I heard her speak and it struck me to my core.

I felt like she was telling chapter one of my story, and I had just shared the current chapter of the life of Fran. We were ying and yang, before and after, past and present and it broke me.

I listened with tears in my eyes, locked on hers, much like she locked mine when I spoke and with my wife by side, I inched my fingers closer to hers to feel the safety, I needed to feel the safety.

I'm ok.

I'm ok.

I'm not ok.

Whilst our scars and stories of abuse vary and differ and I have heard many upon my journey, whether prostitution or prison, this one struck me unlike others have before.

"Just because an alcoholic doesn't like whiskey and they're a vodka drinker, doesn't mean they won't drink whiskey if there's no vodka in the house,"

I felt sick.

I remember that feeling of dread when I was a child, this fierce and ferocious fighter within me that thought every time it happened - take me, use me, but if you go near him, I'll kill you. I'll kill you.

I'll be the distraction and the plaything, I'll be the pretty little girl. But one look at him with the same eyes and I'll find away in this tiny body of mine to end you.

And I held that fight within me until we were plucked from that place.

I hold it still, as illogical as it is in 2024, I'd still die to protect him regardless of circumstance or time.

3 year old Fran knew that in her heart, that the vodka drinker would ultimately land on whiskey and it was a fear that kept me hyper vigilante and kept me playing the game.

The strange thing about being a child victim of sexual abuse and exploitation, is that you grow up with two personality traits from a young age.

1) blaming yourself for being the sexual provocateur

2) being a sexual provocateur

I was both.

I remember asking the most beautiful of foster parents I ever had, and I had some shockers

"Was I sexual? Did I hit on you?" - I know it is a strange question to ask a man you've not seen for nearly 3 decades but I had to know the answer.

"Yes, but that was never unusual for little girls like you, so I would sit you on my knee, read you a book and make you a lovely, little buttery crumpet and be your daddy,"

If only there were more men like that in my early years.

More crumpets and less cock.

Forgive the vulgarity, I don't dampen my rage or sadness when I write, you know this to be true by now if you are here reading.

But why, you ask, do I write of such sadness and trauma on a Sunday night when my social media channels reflect and project a weekend of love and joy....

Well, that's exactly the point isn't it, the two things live side by side in a mind, body and soul as fragmented and damaged as mine.

I am happy, happier than I have ever been.

Safe, secure, well, healthy enough, busy, loved, and kind.

What a dream, what a joy. Something I never thought possible for a child like me, a teenager, a woman, a... Fran.

But there we have it. Happy healthy and sane.

With the caveat, the sadness and the broken lives within me. The trauma, the memories, the damage.

But mostly, the rage. The hypocrisy. The expectation.

That with beginnings like mine at the hands of men in positions of power and somehow the world expected more of me, to be kind, to be good, to be better.

With what help from you? With what justice? With what recovery and rehabilitation and piecing me back together?

- The Barkers have a lot to answer for, this we know to be true. Taking on a child of trauma and abuse and letting it fester, linger, take root and rot my growth and hope from the inside out.

To ashamed, too scared, too fucking arrogant to imagine a child they now called theirs was this creature of the night with more notches on the bedpost aged 4 than most whores down Piccadilly bridge, but alas, there I was, beautifully blonde, damaged and wild, but theirs none the less.

There's no more and I'm still angry.

I sat in a room full of white privilege last night; not a criticism, a summary.

I was amongst them. I was proud to count myself amongst them. I have been wild and lost a long time, I have tried to be the Cheshire daughter, I have tried to be the success story, the pillar of stability and failed, often to the cost of others.

But last night, in my custom black three piece tuxedo, looking oh so ever the dyke, but in beauty and power, I sat, wife by my side, in feminine attire, open tuxedo shirt, blazing red brassier, the epitome of feminine sexuality and power, and we emanated it across the room, together. We are here.

I digress.

In a room full of power, privilege and hope, there were morals and truths and authentic natures I have yet to see in a room like that. It was a joy. It was pure. It was purpose. I felt it.

So now I write.

A woman in white and a woman in red. Held the room in their power. Their purpose and their authenticity.

The woman in red, she laughed with the irony and I saw that sadness in her eyes like when we first met in that room as we both spoke our truths, hugged me and as a person who does not hug - who was raised in an adoptive family that was cold, without warmth or emotion, hugs were not something I knew, I never had hugs. I never had hand holds, reassurance. I never had bed tuckings in. Stories. I never had "love you" never had "proud of you"

I think to them, I was always "daddy's little whore" and they dare not touch the tainted child. At least that's how it felt to a little girl in a big house waiting for parents to love her. And it never came.

But there, last night in a bougie hotel in Manchester City centre, a hug was enough for two women to hold one another in pain and power and know, we're here.

We did it.

A beautiful lady in red, who has inspired me to own my truth and say it loud and proud.

You all know from snippets and moments of reference my beginnings were filled with trauma and sex. Now you know.

My father, was a disgraced police officer who abused me and allowed his friends and his networks to abuse me further still. My family did nothing. Nobody stopped it. He was enabled, allowed and empowered to do so and never ever held to account.

I was THRILLED to hear he died, clutching his chest in agony at a London tube station as he fell to his knees and died there and then of a heart attack. The coward's way out.

Had we have met in my adult years; I would no doubt have gone to prison a little earlier than planned and served for a lot longer.

What can I say, like mother like daughter. There's a murderous temper in my blood.

But that would have been my justice. Because up until now, I've had none.

I've been the black sheep, the drug addict, the hooker, the homeless, the prisoner, the fraudster, the criminal, the lesbian, the shame, the blame, the embarrassment. I've been disowned, disembodied and stripped of my life, my history, my family, all that I knew. Gone.

Well fuck you and feel the shame of what is it to be less than.

I am strong. I am power. I am all that I am because of the trauma, the pain, the taint, the stain, the hurt, the hate. I am fearless, I am angry and I am waging a war on the bullshit.

The systems that protect the wrong people.

The systems that fail those who need them most.

The people who cast blame and shame without looking closer.

The people who name and stigmatise for life without cause or concequence.

Shame on you.

I was a child. Less than 4 years old before I was rescued from the rinse and repeat pass around.

My adoptive mother never made reference to my harrowing beginnings other than this

"Of course you think you're a lesbian, you don't have a great track record with men,"

At 15? An unacceptable, abhorrent thing to say to a child that knew, that felt, that lived and relived the pain and the memories but was never allowed to say it out loud.

I was 8, I had a nightmare, I was in a pub, it was dirty, mattress, men, pain, tears, I woke up.

I told my mother (she doesn't deserve that name)

She said "What a twisted little mind you must have to dream such disgusting things Francesca,"

I thought she was right.

I spent years obsessing over the fact I was sick. I had something wrong with me for dreaming such things. What an imagination. What a fucked up human.

That's why they don't love me I would think, I'm broken. They see it. There's something wrong with me.

Imagine my relief in my twenties at my first court case for my first crime; IMAGINE, laughing with joy at reading my child court case records and putting the pieces together.

Not sick. Not twisted.

An 8 year old girl remembering things from a dark night and trying to tell her mummy about it.

I trace my story, I trace the roots, and I see, how I came to be a person who can lack empathy, lack understanding, be selfish, make bad choices, want to set the world on fire. I see it. The angry little girl lives on.

But in a 3 pieces tuxedo (it's worth mentioning twice, as it looked fabulous) - I held that power in such a positive way.

I sought out tickets to go to the ball, to support the cause, because the woman in white, is an angel.

Maggie Oliver.

In a room full of people who all want her ear, her attention and words, she made time for each and every one. With warmth, words and love. But most of all, with thanks. To every one who had made the time, the commitment and the effort to stand with her.

A woman who stood against a broken system, to call it out, to shout it out loud, to speak for the victims, to speak for the broken, she did it.

And she fucking set it on fire.

And I am here for it.

I am here for her.

I feel it firing inside me as I write, the purpose of that moment.

We are our trauma, but we don't let it define us, we define what it means for the future.

And for me?

It's knowing if I can be held accountable in a court of law and a society that says what's wrong.

Then so can the rest of the nonces and perverts that got their hands on me.

Game on.

Justice is transparency.

Justice is change.

Justice is healing.

Justice is protecting all the girls that came before, and all that come next. To make a safer, more accountable world.

That fire I had to protect my whiskey brother. I have it for all the girls and boys who need a protector. I'm here. And I'll fight.

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