The Rose of Tralee by Tom Fynes

 The cops had handcuffed him and thrown him into the back of their patrol car.

He had a black eye where the sergeant had accidently elbowed him in the face. His friends surrounded the car and were demanding answers from the stone-faced cops.

I thought, this was not how my trip to, ‘The Rose of Tralee Festival,’ was supposed to end.

Last night was a blur. I did remember dancing on top of those parked cars. It must be that. Someone had seen me and complained. Fair cop. I remembered I was trying to impress a girl I had hooked up with. She was a stunner. And I could not believe my luck. Mary or was it, Emma. It was all very vague. We’d gone to a pub and drank far too much booze. And we smoked some dope. Then I’d gone to the toilet and fallen asleep. When I came too, everybody was gone. The party had upped stakes and moved on. I had staggered back to my Air BnB and was out of it until the next morning. I was at the bar enjoying the hair of the dog when the cops came in and manhandled me out and into their car.

They had me in a room. Light shining in my face. Read me my rights. I thought it was way over the top for dancing on cars.

They showed me a picture. It was the girl from last night. They said her name was Sharon Falmer. Did I know her. I said yes, I did. I think. Thought her name was Emma or something else.

Bad cop said, “she’s dead scumbag. Raped and strangled. Did you enjoy it. Get a kick out of it.”

I said, “wait a minute, I didn’t do it. That was not me.”

Good cop said, “Ok, maybe you can tell us what you did last night. So we can eliminate you from the inquiry.”

I said, “don’t I need a lawyer?”

“Only if you’re guilty,” said bad cop.

I went through what I could remember.

“Not looking good,” said good cop, “can’t remember is not a good defence for murder.”

“I didn’t do it. You got the wrong guy,” I said, not very convincingly, even to myself.”

“You where the last person seen with Sharon. And she turns up dead. You tell me how it looks,” said Mr good cop.

“She piss you off. Make you angry. You hate women,” bad cop was in full swing.

“Listen, just sign a standard release confession. Just lay out what happened. We understand. You lost control. Things got out of hand. You can get out of here. Back to your family. Deal with all the legal shit later.”

“I felt powerless to resist. If I signed, I could maybe get out. Get a shower. Get some food. My Dad would be pissed but he would hire a good lawyer.

I indicated I was ready to sign.

Then good cop was called away. He came back in and looked disgusted.

“You’re free to go.” And he pointed at the door.

I said, “What the fuck,” and looked at bad cop.

Good cop said, “Her ex-boyfriend has confessed. Thanks for your cooperation and goodbye.”

I came out a free man, but thinking, what the fuck just happened, and did the boyfriend really do it.