What Else Did You Do?: Amanda Roberts, #2

By Laura Lyndhurst

'When you reach the top, the only way is down.'

Amanda Roberts knows this only too well. It's been three years since her life imploded, with devastating consequences. But now she's determined to build a new life for herself, and put the past behind her.

Meanwhile, her nemesis has scaled the heights as a rising star, to enjoy the view from the top of the tree.

Now though, it appears that somebody else is unhappy, and gunning for both of them. Or is it just meant to look that way?

Amanda's back. With attitude. But is she back for payback?

 

201 pages approx.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Laura Lyndhurst
• Release date: Nov 12, 2022
• ISBN: 9798224599547

Laura Lyndhurst

Laura Lyndhurst was born and grew up in North London, England, before marrying and travelling with her husband in the course of his career. When settled back in the UK she became a mature student and gained Bachelor's and Master's degrees in English and Literature before training and working as a teacher. She started writing in the last few years in the peace and quiet of rural Lincolnshire, and published her debut novel, Fairytales Don't Come True, in May 2020. This book forms the first of a trilogy, Criminal Conversation, of which the second is Degenerate, Regenerate and All That We Are Heir To the third. Innocent, Guilty, the first of another trilogy, continues the story told in these three books and leads on to The Future of Our House, which is followed by Uphill, Downhill, Over, Out as the sixth and final book to end the series. Laura also developed a taste for psychological suspense, which led to the writing and publication of You Know What You Did, to which What Else Did You Do? is the sequel. Laura has also published four small books of poems, October Poems, Thanksgiving Poems and Prose Pieces, Poet-Pourri and Social Climbing and Other Poems.

Book preview

What Else Did You Do?

Amanda Roberts, Volume 2

Laura Lyndhurst

Published by Laura Lyndhurst, 2022.

This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

WHAT ELSE DID YOU DO?

First edition. November 12, 2022.

Copyright © 2022 Laura Lyndhurst.

ISBN: 979-8224599547

Written by Laura Lyndhurst.

CHAPTER 1

AMANDA

It’s raining, which I suppose is par for the course, and at least it keeps the paparazzi away, to some extent. Of course, there’ll always be the hardened few cases, desperate for a picture and a story, so I’m not expecting to get out of here without some hassle and barracking from them. I am getting out though, at last, and I can still maintain a dignified silence, the past three humiliating years notwithstanding.

It’s fortunate that the governor was a fan, still is, despite my spectacular fall from grace. I’m being allowed to wait inside therefore, until my lift arrives, rather than being ejected into the world, the inclement weather and the few hardened reporters waiting to pounce. I’ve been allowed to sit, and even have a cup of tea, the best thing that’s happened to me since this dismal place became my residence just over three years ago.

I sit, and drink my tea, and think. The paperwork’s all done and dusted, my belongings—such as they are—packed into the holdall which was brought in for me last week, along with the clothes I’m wearing. Not the quality which I was used to, well before I came here, anyway. I’ve been obliged to lower my former standards to a considerable extent.

Not anymore though. I’m getting out, and things are going to change. I’ve done the time and paid for my crime, and now I’m going out and going up. No more cheap, tacky, high-street clothes for me. I have standards to uphold—once I’ve put them back in place, that is—and I intend to do that as soon as possible.

This waiting seems interminable. Where is the woman? I have to remember that I’m early. They’re overworked and underpaid here, so they tell me. They have duties to get on with, as if I didn’t know it, as if I hadn’t been watching them getting on with it for the last three years, and acquiescing in their requests for all of that time. I’ve done as I was told, I’ve played the game, I didn’t need any extra trouble. God knows I was in enough already. I appreciate that they need to be getting on with it now, rather than having their working day bent out of shape by one woman who’s on her way out. It was up and get ready early for me this morning, and I wasn’t reluctant, even though it does mean I have to sit and wait. Time hangs heavy though, as it’s done for the past three years.

Three years. And I’m going out in half the original time allotted to me, but that’s normal if you co-operate and keep your nose clean, as I’ve done, as I’ve been seen to do. Six years, though. I had good lawyers, for God’s sake—well, I thought I had. The whole thing was rigged and prejudiced, and pre-judged, if you ask me. Just because I had a good start in life, and improved on that, they saw me as some privileged, never-done-a-day’s-work-in-her-life type, which of course was not and still is not, the case. It takes hard work to become a successful, best-selling author, even if I did suffer from extreme writers’ block towards the end and make a bad life choice.

It all spiralled, with breath-taking speed, and with more than a little help from that scheming bitch. Well, it was only natural for me to become just a little bit dependent on some pills and a few glasses of wine, wasn’t it? You’d have to be inhuman not to be affected in that way, and the balance of my mind was disturbed, no question, when I made my unfortunate move on her. The judge chose to ignore that though, concentrating on the irrelevant fact that I was of sound mind when I borrowed that woman’s pathetic little book.

I never meant to kill her, of course, just rattle her, shake her up a bit. If she hadn’t jumped aside in such a hysterical way she wouldn’t have sustained more than a scratch. As it was she received a serious injury, not enough to kill her, thank heavens, or I wouldn’t be standing here this morning ready to resume my life. Talking of which, where are you, Rose? I’m itching to get out of this dump, in every way, but I’m stuck here nursing an empty teacup until such time as you arrive.

Rose. The flower on the dunghill, the saving grace of this graceless place. It wasn’t easy at first. The drink, the drugs, the absolute terror—once they’d worn off—of the situation in which I found myself, being in prison rather than some medical institution. Not that such a place would have been any better, but at least it would have implied that I was ill—which I still protest I was—rather than just a common criminal. The medical treatments I underwent, alongside my incarceration, it was a nightmare. There was Rose though, a friend and supporter throughout my ordeal, and to whom I will be forever grateful.

I had to ask her why, of course. Did she have lesbian intentions? I’d heard of such things, through the necessary research I’d carried out as an author. Nothing so mundane though, as it turned out, although her initial motives weren’t down to love, or even just plain liking. She did grow on me though, and I her, and now there’s a genuine affection between us, which did get just a bit physical, I can’t deny it.

Rose was a cut above the other inmates too, no petty shoplifter or prostitute but an educated woman, a computer whizz-kid. No child either, but a mature woman, only a few years older than myself. Her crime lay more in the nature of her employers, shady characters in the extreme, for whom she’d carried out dubious transactions, well-hidden from the eyes of the authorities and saving her employers from the inconvenience of paying tax to any nation on the face of the earth.

It was unfortunate for her that her employers were exposed by a disgruntled ex-employee and became the subject of long-term surveillance, leading to the apprehension and incarceration of some of their number at Her Majesty’s pleasure in an assortment of establishments spread across the nation. Not the big fish though. It was left to the small fry to take the fall. That was how I came to meet Rose, and as it turned out it was no accident. She was looking for me, and had she been assigned to another institution I would’ve come into contact with whichever of her hapless colleagues had joined me here.

Odd, as it turns out, that I have Jack to thank for the assistance I received from the organisation which employed—and still employs—my new friend Rose. Jack, my erstwhile husband, ex-husband since the divorce which was arranged with discretion and carried out—uncontested by him—through my lawyers, after I took up residence here. It was a quiet divorce, no need to give the gutter press something else to shout from the rooftops.

It turned out that Rose’s employers were some of those to whom Jack was in debt, not to mention God-knows how many dodgy deals he was involved in with them. When he was prosecuted for his many and varied illegal white-collar activities, he was steadfast in his refusal to point so much as a finger in their direction, let alone name them. Not out of loyalty, I’d imagine, but from his own need to stay alive, because this lot, I’m more than sure, wouldn’t take kindly to being ratted-out by one of their own, which is what Jack was and is, whichever way you cut it.

He went to jail, and will remain there for another couple of years at least. His associates are, as it turns out, willing to work on the basis of one good turn deserving another. There’s some sort of honour among thieves, it would seem. Jack’s new partner and my old PA, Hayley—who’s stood by him during his ordeal, not the least because she is now the proud mother of his baby son—was looked after, through payment of an income, as my reliable informant Rose told me. They’ve also made sure that I’ve passed my stay inside in as comfortable conditions as were possible. There have been some home comforts, smuggled in on a daily basis, but in the main it’s been about bodyguards, in the shape of Rose and others, always keeping an eye out and making sure I’ve not been on the receiving end of the attentions of some of the more unpleasant occupants of this place.

I’m grateful, well and truly thankful, because things could have been so much worse. Even though I was divorcing Jack, he took it upon himself to make sure that my welfare was part of the deal for his silence. I’m glad we can be on civilised terms, because he is the father of my children, when all’s said and done.

Elsie and Nat. I haven’t seen them, but left them to be looked after by Jack’s parents, and I presume them to be additional recipients of the bounty of their father’s grateful business associates. I miss them, but I wouldn’t have them coming to a place like this, absolutely not, no way. Arranging to see them will be one of the things I intend to do as soon as possible.

My reverie is interrupted as I’m startled by the sound of a car horn, a sharp, long-drawn out and jarring note. I look around in panic, as the inner door to the room is opened from the other side and Ruby Weston, one of the more pleasant guards, enters.

‘Sound like your lift’s arrived.’

She brings out keys, unlocks the door to the front of the building, takes me into the short corridor leading to the gates, then outside into the fresh air, and beyond that, freedom. She leads me over, unlocks the solid metal door set in the heavy iron gates, pulls back the bolts and stands, ready to push down the handle and open for me. She turns, extends her hand and takes mine, giving it a short, firm shake, which I return.

‘Good luck. Don’t let us see you here again.’

From your mouth to God’s ear, I think. Over your dead body, although that could happen, given the criminal propensities of some of those incarcerated here.

Which I no longer am. I exit to the outside world, where the same fresh air and rain surround me, but sit on me with far less weight. I’m free, at last. Free.

CHAPTER 2

I remember how it used to be with you. Those long, hot nights when we two lay together, bodies entwined then separate, touching. How good it made me feel just to be with you, your skin against mine, your personal fragrance mingling with mine.

It’s not that way anymore. You’re gone, I’ve lost you and I cannot get you back. Was I to blame, was it my own fault that you’re gone, never to return, impossible to ever get you back, even if I wanted you? You took advantage, weren’t always straight with me. I knew what was going on but turned a blind eye, not wanting to notice, not wanting to know, fool in love that I was.

Whatever, it’s over now between us. Move on. There’s life yet to be lived for me, even if you don’t figure in it. But was it all my fault, in fact, was it my responsibility? No, I tell you, no, it wasn’t down to me. I cared for you, looked after you, we had a future which was taken from us. It would have been alright, I tell you, it would have been so good, but circumstances parted us, and someone has to pay.

Not me. I did everything I could, and not you either. What happened wasn’t down to you, not really, someone else got in the way, spoiled what we two had. And now I’ll never get you back, but I can see to it that the guilty party pays.

The guilty will be made to pay. I’ll make sure of that.

CHAPTER 3

AMANDA

There are several cars parked over by the road, with a group of people, male in the main, lounging against them. My appearance galvanises them and they push off from the bonnets and boots against which they lean, microphones and cameras at the ready as they surge towards me. I’m confused, bewildered. I knew to expect this but the reality is difficult. I’m not used to being the centre of attention anymore and can’t cope with the barrage of questions which come at me.

‘How does it feel to be out, Amanda?’

‘How do you think Lisa Lindström is going to feel about you being out?’

‘How about you all fuck off, you bloody vultures. No effing comment, get it, she’s got nothing to say.’

Rose. My saviour and protector. An arm goes around me, shielding me from the mob. I am guided to a car, it’s silver, I don’t see the make, then helped inside, the front passenger seat, the door banged behind me. I sit, looking down at the gearstick, until my rescuer enters on the other side, closing the door behind her, putting on her seatbelt. I do so too. I’d forgotten, well, it’s been three years. She starts the motor, puts it in gear and pulls away, in one fluid movement. The scavengers are obliged to jump aside as she drives through them, no quarter given, and sets off down the road at a rapid pace. Am I going to be arrested again so soon for being a party to a hit and run?

But no. Rose executes a U-turn at the next junction—illegal, I’m sure—and the traffic lights there oblige us by turning red as the following press pack reach them. She rolls down the window and gives them the finger as she passes by in the opposite direction, leaving them there fuming as she sets off after her successful evasion. She starts to laugh, and I join in, with the finger too. I haven’t had a lot to laugh about for a long time now.

‘Tossers.’

She throws the word into the wind behind her, then closes the window.

‘It’s good to see you again, Rose.’

‘You too.’

Her hand reaches across and squeezes mine for a brief time. Not given to overblown expressions of emotion, is our Rose. But she’s dependable, and loyal, and I’d trust her with my life. Have trusted her with my life.

She talks practicalities as she drives. There’ll be time for more tangible affection later, I expect.

‘The company has arranged a flat for you, South-West London, not the best area but not the worst. It’s yours until you’ve got on your feet, decided what to do with your life, made other arrangements.’

If it’s better than the Muswell Hill rat-hole I lived in before my unfortunate encounter with that woman then I’ll be happy. Deciding what to do with my life? I have a few ideas, but even though I knew I was coming out I couldn’t really focus on anything until I was out the gates and shaking the dust of that place from my heels—except for my children. I have to see my children. Soon.

‘You don’t have to pay rent, that’s taken care of, and there’s no pressure to leave. I wouldn’t take too much advantage of their hospitality though, if I were you.’

Point taken, and I’ve no intention of hanging around kicking my heels in the debt of criminals, thank you very much—even if I am one myself, in the technical sense, that is. I want to get my life back on track and put this sorry episode behind me, which involves an early meeting with my children. I’ve so missed Elsie and Nat, lost three years of their young lives, and I can never make that up to them—any more than I can make up for what’s been happening to them for all that time, either, which frightens me. I know their grandparents Flo and Ed are good people, but they raised Jack, after all, and look how he turned out. And then of course there’s Hayley.

I knew Jack had married Hayley, in prison. He had to apply to the governor, but given that there were no security concerns, and that Jack’s friends made it worth his while, the man agreed with alacrity. No lawyers were needed to quote Jack’s human rights under Article 12 of the European Convention—I found out about that at the time, and it’s burned into my brain. What a touching ceremony it must have been, in prison, with a couple of other convicts for witnesses—unreliable ones to say the least, I’d have thought—and what a blushing bride Hayley must have been, wearing white and heavily pregnant.

Now now, Amanda, don’t be catty. I don’t mean to be, but it was such a shock to discover that Jack’s darling Hayley has had contact with my children. That woman, that bitch who stole my husband, in the same room, the same house, with my children. She’s been a mother-figure to them, it seems, one of their principal carers, along with Jack’s parents, with whom they live for the majority of the time. I put my foot down about that, but Hayley nevertheless has become a rock in their lives, I’m told.

I do understand. They were devastated, not understanding at all why both their parents were absent. They knew Hayley, having been familiar with her when she was my PA and general dogsbody, so they’ve learned to trust her—but I don’t. What has she been doing to them? She’s provided some much-needed stability in their lives, Ed and Flo insist, and I did want the best for them, in my absence. Even so, it’s galling for it to be that woman who’s providing it, even if only at weekends. I’ll be on the phone to Jack’s parents at the earliest opportunity, to make sure my children remember who their real mother is and try to reform my relationship with them.

‘A penny for them.’

Rose has been driving while I’ve been lost in my thoughts, and she’s been letting me do what I need to do. Now I return to reality and realise that the car is stationery, as we’re stuck in a bad traffic jam. Back to the outside world with a vengeance, having the freedom to be inconvenienced by heavy traffic and bad drivers once more.

‘Sorry. There’s a lot to think about.’

She reaches over and squeezes my hand, smiling to show her understanding. She’s been there and done it herself, she must remember what it’s like to come out and try to reconnect. She’s only been out a few months.

‘Take your time. It’s weird at first, but you’ll get back into it. I did.’

‘So, what’s this flat like?’

I’ll see it soon enough, but I feel I ought to show a willingness to engage.

‘It’s fine, in a good block, not a gated community but security at the front door for resident-only entrance and exit. Like I said, not the best area, but a long way from being the worst. I’ve had people in, given it a deep clean, been in myself and made up the bed, got some groceries. I can stay and make you dinner if you like, but if you want to be alone then that’s cool. The feeling of being on your own after living in a crowd, even if you’ve got the best cellie in the world, it’s priceless.’

She takes a deep breath, the air of freedom. Given her own recent release, she must still be relishing the air outside, even if it is laden with traffic fumes.

‘Can we see when we get there? I’m just taking it one step at a time at the moment. Maybe you could stay for dinner, and then—.’

I stop, not wanting to seem ungrateful.

‘I couldn’t send you home afterwards, so maybe—.’

‘That wouldn’t be a problem. I live in the same block.’

She gives an impish grin. She’s been keeping this from me, and now she’s having a bit of fun in breaking it to me.

‘Well, that’s convenient.’

I’m relieved. Whether Rose stays for dinner, or the whole night, or not at all, she doesn’t have far to go and I won’t have to feel guilty in the event.

She’s been inching the car forward as we’ve been speaking, but this jam isn’t going to break up anytime soon. We come to a grinding halt which goes on forever. There’s the sound of horns blaring, raised voices, people are getting out of cars and standing in the road, lighting cigarettes, talking to each other. Rose winds down her window and accosts a passing man.

‘What’s happening, do you know?’

He lights his cigarette, then indicates the road far ahead of us.

‘There’s been an accident, fatal, they’re saying. We’re stuck here until they can get an ambulance in and get them out, then they’ve got to clear it up. Don’t be expecting to go anywhere in a hurry.’

He wanders down the middle of the road, the subject of similar questions from the occupants of other cars.

Rose winds her window up, turns on the radio and shrugs.

‘Want to choose a station?’

A radio, the choice of what to listen to. I fiddle with the dial, find one playing classical music but move on, that not being Rose’s thing. I find something neutral, not thump-thump young but middle-aged, I suppose, music of the seventies and eighties. We sit and listen, with sparse occasional conversation. This is an unwanted hiatus in our journey, a necessary evil to get me from my old, incarcerated life to my new,