Page 8 of The Six Murders of Daphne St Clair

Chapter Six

Ruth was setting up her equipment for recording episode two when Daphne walked behind her.

Ruth’s laptop screensaver was a selection of photos from Ruth’s life: pictures of her visiting her best friend Chelsea in New York, cuddled on the couch with her mother as a little girl, old pictures of her grandmother, her father, her college graduation, all endlessly shuffling past the screen.

There were even some shots of Jenn that made her chest tighten and Ruth made a mental note to remove those from the carousel.

“Are you doing research on me?” Daphne asked suddenly.

“What do you mean?” Ruth asked in surprise.

“That man, he just looks familiar, is all,” Daphne replied.

She was frowning, as if trying to access a long-buried file from a very full hard drive.

Ruth’s stomach lurched and she resisted the urge to close the laptop, although she did turn the screen slightly away from Daphne.

She didn’t want Daphne to look at pictures of her family, didn’t want them contaminated with her presence.

“You haven’t even told me about your life yet, so how could I have researched you?

I’m not a mind reader,” Ruth scoffed, trying to sound casual.

She was aware that Daphne was watching her, and it made her skin prickle.

She’d never really considered what it would feel like to be trapped in a room with a serial killer, elderly or not.

She felt as if she was swimming in deep water, so deep there was nothing but blue below her legs, only to be suddenly aware of a long dark shadow circling beneath her.

“Well, he looks a little old for you, more my type than yours,” Daphne said with a dry chuckle. Ruth watched the crepey skin on her neck shudder with the movement.

“That’s a family member, and this is Florida, not Alabama. But what exactly is your type?” Ruth asked. She wondered what Daphne would think if she’d told her that she’d just broken up with a woman.

“Rich,” Daphne said. “My type is rich. And I can always spot the ones with money. This guy looks familiar but, I don’t know, I’ve dated a lot of wealthy codgers in Florida; they all blur together.”

“The wonders of aging, huh?” Ruth said, pulling out her microphone, trying to keep her voice casual. “Anyways, we’ve got almost ninety years of life history to cover, so we better get cracking.”

“I suppose,” Daphne said with a shrug. Her eyes trailed up to Ruth’s face again, as if she was trying to work something out, but then the moment passed.

RUTH (Voiceover): The next time I came to the seniors home, I wanted to talk more about Lucan and Daphne’s childhood, since people want to know how killers are made. But Daphne seemed to think the subject was exhausted.

[Daphne’s room. She is making a tutting noise as if Ruth has irritated her.]

DAPHNE: There’s nothing else to say really. My childhood was dirt. Dirt storms, dirt poor, and being treated like dirt. My favorite memory of Lucan was leaving it. What about you? What was your childhood like?

RUTH: Me? Why are we talking about me?

DAPHNE: Because I feel like it.

RUTH: Well, I grew up around here. I was raised by a single mother who worked really hard to keep a roof over our heads.

DAPHNE: Touching stuff.

RUTH: Now, could you tell me how old you were when you left home?

DAPHNE: Sixteen? Around that age. When you’ve lived as long as I have, some of the details get a bit fuzzy.

RUTH: What about school?

DAPHNE: I quit school at twelve. Things were different then.

They couldn’t even pay teachers in the Depression.

The school board gave them IOUs and families took turns hosting them.

Sometimes they had to share beds with their own students!

Nobody cared about my education, they wanted me home working.

I barely remember those years, every day was the same.

[A faint sigh, barely audible, escapes Daphne’s lips.]

RUTH: What about World War Two? What do you remember about that?

DAPHNE: Well, there was that time Hitler came goose-stepping down Lucan’s main street. . . What do you think changed? There were a few less men around and women knitted socks for soldiers. It was a total snooze.

RUTH (sounding irritated): Surely something happened. . .

DAPHNE: I guess a few things did.

And then, finally, the drought eased off and the dust began to settle. The insects were long gone; the government’s poison campaign having worked its gruesome magic. But before people could really relax, World War Two began.

My father didn’t go to war. A farmer could contribute to the war effort by growing food for the country, but many farmers still went.

The ones who stayed behind weren’t always treated well.

Everyone knew I was the daughter of a drunk, but now they saw me as the daughter of a coward.

We went to town even less, preferring to avoid all the muttered slurs and accusing stares.

At fourteen I felt like my whole world was the size of a penny and it was closing in fast. I hated the farm and I hated my father.

Every day felt like a struggle, one that left me tired and dirty in a way that I have trouble remembering now.

Even though the drought was long gone, and Saskatchewan was no longer a dust bowl, I still felt it on my skin, the way your cheek burns when you remember someone slapping it.

I was changing too, from a girl to a woman.

I started to walk with my arms across my chest because I couldn’t afford a bra, and my breasts swayed and clapped together with every step.

At first my features seemed too large, my mouth plump and huge, my eyes bulging, and my cheekbones jutting out like blades from my face.

But then I grew taller and my face widened and it was as if all my features slotted into place and suddenly I was beautiful.

I looked a lot like Ava Gardner; we both had coal-black hair and dark green eyes.

Not that this discovery gave me any pleasure. It was safer to be invisible.

By sixteen I was fending off boys, but not in a nice way.

They didn’t show up in their Sunday best and ask to take me for a picnic.

Those gestures were saved for the girls who mattered: the girls with shining hair and dresses freshly sewn by their fat, gossipy mothers; girls who lived in tidy little houses in town and expected kindness because that’s all they’d ever been given.

Girls like me still got married but never to anyone worth a damn and only because we had nowhere else to go.

One Sunday, after church, the preacher asked me to stay behind.

He smiled at me kindly and explained in a lowered voice that he wanted help organizing a dance for the local young people.

I was proud that he had chosen me, that he saw me as something other than a dirtbag Cowell.

When I think about who I was back then, I feel a strange kind of ache in my chest. I was just a pathetic little girl, hoping someone would like me.

The following Saturday, we met again, this time in his office at the church. I had spent the week rehearsing my ideas and was excited to share them. I was wearing my family’s best clothes: my mother’s plaid skirt and a thick green sweater.

“So, for the dance, I was thinking we could do a spring theme, with paper flowers. I know how to make them; I just need some colored paper,” I said. I was suddenly aware that I was talking too much and far too quick. I wanted him to be dazzled by my ideas.

I’d never had the opportunity to be good at anything.

I had to take turns going to school with some of my sisters because the family didn’t have enough clothing and shoes for all of us.

At times, I was forced to go to school barefoot and wearing tops made of bleached flour sacks, which was a source of endless shame.

No one wanted to be friends with the kids in flour sacks because they were the poorest of the poor.

I had actually liked learning but all anyone saw when they looked at me was a stupid girl from a bad family.

“Am I blabbering?” I asked, talking through my curled-up fingers. The preacher smiled and patted my arm.

“Of course not! That’s why I chose you, because you have so many ideas!” A warm flush ran through me. I could live for months on a couple of kind words; they were like gasoline for my soul.

“I want to hang the garlands from the ceiling, so they dangle like vines?” I continued, studying his face for any more positive reactions.

“Then that’s what we’ll do,” he said. “Now, should we have a little wine to celebrate?”

“Oh-okay,” I said. I’d never drunk alcohol before. I tried to smother the flicker of discomfort I always felt when a man started drinking around me, like I could feel my safety draining away with every sip.

“Let’s toast to a new friendship,” he said, offering me a small crystal glass full of red wine. I took it, aware that it was the nicest thing I’d ever held, but still nervous about its contents.

“Have a good sip, really taste those flavors,” the preacher said, and I noticed with a queasy realization that his hand was on my knee.

DAPHNE: You know what happened next. I won’t spell it out for you.

RUTH: Why not?

DAPHNE: Look, I’m fine to describe the men I killed. You want to hear about how they moaned and vomited while I was downstairs crushing up pills? Sure. But I don’t like remembering the times I was a victim. Besides, you’ve heard it a million times; you can picture it already, can’t you?

RUTH: Well, I—

DAPHNE (upset): Rough carpet, scrabbling hands, his weight crushing me. The scared noises I made, how betrayed I felt. . . you KNOW this story. EVERYONE’S heard THIS story. What is there to gain from another story about a woman being victimized?

RUTH: Well, it’s the truth. . . There’s something to gain from telling the truth isn’t there? Even if there’s no happy ending.