I am spent.

 

It is tiresome.

And we grow weary, the both of us.

Having lived it, felt it and somehow, someway, come out of the other side together.

I don't necessarily refer to the incarceration, as that was the climax of a tumultuous period. Years of chaos, all veering towards the edge of a cliff.

We married in 2019. It was conditional, having been engaged for so many years prior.

"Are you done now?" she said, having watched the royal wedding on the television with white dresses and flowers and hopefulness.

"Are you done?" with a seriousness that was matching with optimism and trust just as much.

"Yes," I replied.

And so, from the moment on the sofa watching the royals marry, we too hustled and bustled towards our own vows, planned a year to the day of that very moment.

We've had many incarnations of love and trust in our 13 years together, most of which, have felt like trial and tribulation as opposed to ease and safety which to the outside world, would probably leave most wondering - why bother?

I suppose that's a burning fear within me - why does she bother? So many years in, it's almost as if she doesn't know any better and part of me wishes that at times, she did and ran like a wild woman into the wilderness away from my orbit, because like a black hole, a vortex, a whirlpool, I draw darkness and absorb all that is good, stable, safe, sane, and good.

Not these days.

But to write it in black and white paints a stark reality of what our love is. Resilient, no doubt. Blinded by her altruistic nature to see the good in me at all times, no matter how bleak a presentation.

Through rehab, she sat. In waiting rooms. Of drug rehabilitation centres. Or probation appointments. Of mental health sessions. Rape crisis meetings. And that was the first time I set the world; our world on fire.

But she persevered, knowing that the woman, person she loves implicitly without skipping a beat - is good. 

She knows it, believes it, see's it, feels it. It's the choices that are hard to palate on occasion.

We sat side by side in our car, parked outside the bakery, in the pouring rain. Biblical rain. And with exasperation and desperation of a woman who couldn't take anymore she screamed at me 

"I don't know what you're doing but you will end up in prison if you don't stop it,"

That was 2016.

She was right. And had I the bravery and sensibility and honesty to stop and think, I would have told her everything there and then, but I was still very much of the thinking that "what she doesn't know can't hurt her,"

It wasn't true then and it isn't true now. And we are in 2024.

Of course, now she does know. In all its hideous existence what I was doing, but thankfully, being the woman who knows me better than most, she also knew why.

It didn't make her any less angry, any less disappointed, frustrated, exasperated, that I hadn't unpicked these poor qualities and plucked them from my being to ensure I didn't burn our life to the ground... again.

On the plus side, at least this time, there was no rehab.

There was prison.

And so, I disappeared, on a December night, so many years after the fact and after a marriage and a promise and a life well lived with integrity and decency, one foot infant of the other, rebuilding my dignity, honour and sense of self, putting in the work to make sure I understood those qualities and navigated them.

I'm always the first to say; there is no magic trick, all that I was, I am, it's within me. The ticking time bomb and the anxious mind that presses the detonator and fails to recognise the collateral damage of my calamitous behaviour and choices. However, in 2024, much like 2019, 2020, 2021, 2022, 2023 and onwards - I know myself, I've taken the time to know, to learn, to mitigate, navigate, medicate, meditate and understand the motivations, limitations, frustrations that lead to decision making that's unjust, unfair and unlawful in all reality. That actions have consequences no matter how big or small and my orbit of choice is mine, the ripple effect of my actions must now only be a positive thing. It has to.

And so, a lifetime of behaviour management and cultivating a better conscience and a more accountable me.

Days like today, leave me screaming WHY BOTHER. It's the childish response, I know.

It's the "its not fair,"

An unattractive quality, but for now, for an hour or more, I'll allow it.

I'll stamp my feet, I'll have my temper tantrum. Publicly, I'll fight and shout. The injustice. The inequality. I'll take it on the chin that the masses will say SHUSH. Will say "what did you expect?"

The boy who cried wolf. The criminal eternal. The Barker Faker. The girl who conned an entire village for a loaf of bread and a dream.

I am angry.

And despite what society expects of me; I have every right to be.

When is it enough?

A 27 month sentence. Prison. Tag. Probation. License. Lifelong DBS disclosure for fraud. Public humiliation on loop in press and public domain.

When is it enough?

When do we get to just be?

The thing is; Sarah and I don't do "just be"

We do "change the fucking world because we can,"

For 13 years now we've connected at our core, that we are here to change something, do something. Neither of us knew what that was until I went to prison.

All of this, this life I've lead, that she's been pulled into and shared with love and hope, it has to be for something.

Cue, Sarah doing a masters in ethics.

Cue Fran doing a degree in Criminology.

Cue Fran quitting a job and moving into the VCSE sector to work with ethics and values that matter.

Sarah, daily, working her socks off in the cancer hospital making peoples lives better.

And lo' - applying to be on the police ethics committee.

Why?

1) When she was sexually assaulted in Manchester, the police did a horrific job of case management, CPS fuck ups and a prosecution so weak, the man walked free

2) When I was interviewed for my crime, she was pulled in and treated like a criminal, belittled, and pressured into "flipping on me"

She has never seen, felt or been protected by the police. 

When I was in prison she was harassed, threatened and terrorised by people involved in my court case. When I came home, that harassment continued for the both of us, literally, the day I was released, relentless messages began. The police did nothing. The victims had every right to voice their frustrations. I was the criminal.

It was only when things took a more dangerous turn they paid attention.

Failed. On loop. By a system designed to protect her.

I know all too well having been the child victim of sexual abuse from police officers back in the 80's what it is the distrust the establishment. Long since embedded in my mind.

My mind.

Two separate people. 

Sarahs purpose is always to improve something, heal it, sooth it and understand the source of its failing. It's the scientist within her. The ethicist too.

She was never swayed by public rhetoric with regards to the police, she only ever saw a system that needed accountability and proportionality to ensure its transparency and integrity, if anything, she approached the ethics committee, much like she approaches me. With a vacant hopefulness that the moral compass will centre, and do the right thing, with the right questions and support, recentered and refocused.

She went for the interview the day before her fathers funeral.

She wasn't going to. Overwhelmed with grief but fired up and powered by that sense of purpose, that she is here to bring about a change.

Having seen, lived and breathed the justice system up close and personal, she felt compelled that her lived expereience would add a level of empathy, due diligence and perspective.

She was welcomed with open arms, immediately respected, heard, appreciated.

A few months in - removed from calendar invites : vetting from GMP failed.

The Greater Manchester Police (of whom the ethics committee were instructed to evaluate), took the decision that due to known criminal association, she could not be trusted to remain on the ethics committee.

Interesting? That the police force who have an INDEPENDENT ethics committee in situ to evaluate their behaviour and practice, but only GMP approved persons can sit upon that committee - me thinks independent is really stretching its meaning.

So I write, furious, at me. At the system. At the injustice.

That my mistakes are her mistakes, and she is bound by love and marriage to suffer the concequences so many years after the fact; despite full disclosure, and taking pride in having me as her wife, she stands by my side in power and purpose to challenge these systems.

And we will.

I will.

I'm sure, as the criminal, I'm supposed to keep my head below the parapet and hide in shame of all that's come to pass.

I won't.

I'll keep pushing back until equality for Sarah in the least is achieved.

If I live with the noose around my neck, so be it.

But I will not have hers beside me.

A ring upon her finger, not around her neck.

So, GMP, GMCA, lets talk.

I'm dying to hear the rhetoric surrounding your reducing reoffending strategy 2022-2025 and how it ties into family and community ties and placing the value on lived experience.