Page 25 of The Six Murders of Daphne St Clair

DAPHNE:You sure don’t like the boys in blue! What’s the story? You get busted for something? Jaywalking or streetwalking?

RUTH:No, I have a problem with a police force with a history of racism, police brutality, and corruption. Unlike you, I don’t make everything about my own experiences.

DAPHNE:All right, all right, I was just joking. Jesus, I didn’t know you could find a snowflake in Florida!

RUTH:Look, let’s just move on. I wanted to ask you about the podcast title. I was thinking I could change the title to reflect the number of murders the podcast features. So, we’d be onThe Two Murders of Daphne St Clairnow and I’d just keep revising it as we go. Unless you’d be willing to give me the full number of people you killed now? Maybe a little preview of their names and locations?

DAPHNE:Now where’s the fun in that? Don’t rush the story. But I like your idea for the title. Go with that.

RUTH (sighs):So, what happened to Frankie Flanagan?

One day, I was up at 6a.m.to go to work. I was working in a textile factory in the Garment District then, a hot, noisy place that gave me a sore back and buzzing ears. I was walking down the steps of my local subway station when I saw him, just ahead of me. Frankie Flanagan, probably off to unload deliveries at the bar where he worked. He had thinning blond hair the same color as his grayish skin and the muscular body of a brawler. His oldest son was with him and even though he was around eight, I was certain his dad would be forcing him to haul heavy kegs for a little cash in hand, child safety be damned.

I’d never met Frankie. I’d only ever seen him from afar, but I already hated him. Night after night, hearing the violence he meted out set my heart racing and had me smoking cigarette after cigarette to soothe my nerves.

I walked behind them as they entered the station and continued down to the same platform I used. He wasn’t even talking to his son. The only time he acknowledged his existence was when the boy wasn’t walking fast enough, and he grabbed him by the collar of his coat and shoved him forward. The boy barely reacted, as if this was a normal way to treat someone.

The platform was busy with the usual morning crush and the air was murky with cigarette smoke. Frankie pushed his way to the front of the crowd, throwing elbows and forcing himself past old women and young families. He was pushing his son in front of him while I followed behind, moving through the spaces his large body left. I was mesmerized by his hands, so thick and meaty, with red-raw knuckles. Being hit by one of those must have felt like being hit by a train.

Frankie and his son ended up at the very front, although I noticed his son drift a few feet away from his dad, just out of reach of those balled-up fists. I stood behind Frankie, staring hard at the back of his thick neck. It was so crowded that my face was just inches from him. A train was coming, one that didn’t stop here. I could hear that unmistakable rumbling and screeching from inside the tunnel like a great beast stirring in its den.

Frankie saw me looking at him, turned to face me, and curled his lip in disgust. “What the fuck—” But it was too late. My hand shot out and pushed him, so quickly that no one even noticed. His eyes widened as he fell backwards, still staring at my face as the train hit him, pulverizing him. The train tried to brake. The people around us screamed and shouted, so I did as well.

Then I looked over at the boy. He was standing with his mouth gaping and his eyes pinned on me. I could see a bruise above his left eyebrow that had faded to a yellow-green. He looked small and alone as the station platform erupted in noise and chaos.

And then I smiled at him.

A week later I saw Sylvia Flanagan and her children putting their meagre collection of boxes in the hall. I watched as she carried her possessions down the stairs, her children trailing after her like ducklings. When she came up for the final load, I slid out into the hall and said hello. She wiped her brow and smiled tiredly.

“Funny to properly meet on the day we move out,” she said. I nodded, studying her carefully. There was no indication that her son had told her what he saw me do.

“So, where are you off to?” I asked.

“Back to Virginia. My parents own a horse farm and riding school there. We’ll stay with them. They’ve always wanted to see the kids, but Frankie wouldn’t allow it. I think the kids will love it there. I always did,” she replied. There was a strange expression on her face, both wistful and positive. She knew she was getting a second chance at her life.

“Well, best of luck,” I said, stepping inside my door. I wanted to add ‘and you’re welcome’ but knew that killers who gloated ended up behind bars.

Sylvia locked up the apartment and headed downstairs with the kids trailing behind. The last to leave was the oldest son, the boy who saw me on the train platform. He paused at the top of the stairs and glanced back at me, our eyes meeting.

And then he smiled.

RUTH (Voiceover):I had a phone call with Brendan Flanagan, the eldest son of Frankie Flanagan. Brendan was the boy who saw Daphne push his father in front of the train. Brendan is now seventy-eight and lives in rural Virginia. He was surprised to hear from me and shocked to find out that not only had Daphne confessed to killing his father but also that she was actually a serial killer.

BRENDAN:I can’t believe it. Of course, I’ve seen the news but she obviously looked very different when I saw her seventy years ago and she had a different name.

RUTH:So, what do you remember about that day?

BRENDAN:You don’t forget the day you see your father die. He was taking me along to work with him. He did that a lot, even on school days, because they’d usually throw him a couple extra bucks for my work. I hated it. So, there we were in the station. I’d caught a glimpse of the woman who lived next to us. She had black hair, pale skin, and these dark green eyes. And she always had red lipstick on. You noticed her because she looked a little more glamorous than the other women in our building, even though she would have been poor like the rest of us. Liz Taylor!

RUTH:I’m sorry, what?

BRENDAN:I always thought she looked like Liz Taylor. Every time I saw Liz Taylor in a movie, for years after, I’d think about her.

RUTH:So, what happened next?

BRENDAN:Well, I’d stepped away from my dad on the platform, because he was real angry that day. I saw him turn around and say something to her, and then she just shoved him. The train hit him, and that was the last time I ever saw him. The police took me home before they got the body out.

RUTH:How did you feel?

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