Reflections in the Mind's Eye

by Stuart Young

  Reflections

  in the

  Mind’s Eye

  a collection

  Stuart Young

  First Published in 2015 by

  Pendragon Press

  Copyright © 2014 by Stuart Young

  Cover Design & Illustration

  Copyright © 2014 by Ben Baldwin

  Introduction Copyright © by Gary McMahon

  This Ebook Edition 2015

  All Rights Reserved, in Accordance with the

  Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988

  No part of this publication shall be reproduced in any form without the express written consent of the publisher.

  Stuart Young asserts his moral right to be identified as the owner of this work.

  Typeset and Ebook produced by

  Christopher Teague

  www.pendragonpress.net

  To the writers who taught me science fiction could be funny, intelligent and terrifying:

  Douglas Adams

  Greg Egan

  Terrance Dicks

  Michael Marshall Smith

  Kung Fu Sex God

  Stuart Young has been published for a lot longer than I have, his stories appearing in various magazines and journals. I remember first reading his short fiction in small press magazines during the 1990s – Nasty Piece of Work, Peeping Tom, those long lost titles of yore.

  In 2006, Stuart deservedly won a British Fantasy Award for his extraordinary novella The Mask Behind the Face, which I still think is the best place to start if you plan to read his work because it encapsulates everything that’s good about his fiction. The novella is written is his usual laid-back style, and embraces human psychology, cosmic horror, theology, and the simple day to day problems of living in the modern world.

  I can’t remember the first time I met Stuart in person, but it was probably in the bar at a convention. I don’t see him as often as I’d like, but whenever we do meet he’ll usually present me with some classic American crime novel he’s found in a charity shop, or press into my eager hands a couple of comics he thinks I should read (he’s like that: a generous soul, always trying to educate me in areas of the genre where he thinks I’m lacking). I think it was Stuart who first put me onto the novels of James Sallis, and for that alone, I’ll be forever grateful. We usually talk a lot about martial arts, and he’ll usually threaten to show me some moves or stretching techniques from the days when he used to train in Jeet Kune Do. I remember fondly the time at the World Horror Convention in Toronto, when I asked Joe Lansdale to chin him.

  But I digress.

  Stuart’s prose style is deceptively simple. He doesn’t build atmosphere, he leaves the long, drawn-out descriptive passages well alone, and focuses instead on pace and incident. There’s always something happening in a Stuart Young story, and it’s this sense of events that drives the story. I know that he’s influenced by comic books, crime fiction, martial arts, and superhero stories. Sometimes these influences are evident in his stories; more than often they’re not, because over the years Stuart has worked hard to forge his own style. I often think that he’s one of those writers who really should be better known to the general public – he certainly deserves a shot at the big time. His work displays a good grasp of character, realistic dialogue, and is grounded with a sly, mordant sense of humour. However dark things get, you always have the sense that in the world of Stuart’s fiction, you take things seriously at your own risk…

  That clever humour is prevalent in all the stories you are about to read in this short collection, as are all the other points I’ve mentioned – the attention to character, the breakneck pace, the way that incident and action moves along the story.

  In the title tale, Reflections in the Mind’s Eye, a surgeon takes a trip to pick up his brain-damaged brother from a care home and sees the world transformed into a place where those of us considered “normal” are in the most danger.

  In Crashes the main character is a brain in a jar. Seriously. There’s that humour again – oh, how sly it is!

  Heartache focuses on a tough female assassin in the future who is on a mission to wipe out a brutal rapist with whom she has more in common than she’d like to admit, even in the deepest recesses of her soul.

  Vanishings is a longer, more soulful, emotional story that provides a clever spin on the Pied Piper legend. It’s also my favourite one here.

  All the Time in the World features a lonely, alienated young woman who starts to see strange symbols and experience frightening visions, which lead to an examination of the space-time continuum and quantum theory. It’s a heady mix, but pulled off with style.

  So, just five stories: a short collection. But not a word is wasted, not an idea left undeveloped. If you like, you can view this book as a Stuart Young primer, a place to start before moving on and exploring more of this writer’s work. All of his strengths are on display here, and you’ll be left wanting more. I guarantee it. The Kung Fu Sex God will have claimed yet another victim, and all you can do is read more of his prose to try and satisfy the unholy craving that now ravages the very meat of your brain.

  (I still think Joe Lansdale should have chinned him.)

  Gary McMahon

  Yorkshire

  August 2013

  Heartache

  Mist could kill him now but that wasn’t what her client had paid for.

  Instead she just walked across the dance floor towards the target. Sweaty bodies writhed about her, moving in time to the pounding beats of the club’s sound system. VR phantoms swam about the ceiling, occasionally swooping down to swirl between the dancers. The VRs were ethereal beauties, both male and female, deliberately tinged with shimmering colours so the clubbers didn’t make fools of themselves trying to chat them up.

  But Mist wasn’t after a beauty. She was after a beast.

  Jack Stone, heavy-duty villain. Body count ran into the fifties. Into the hundreds if you counted the people who had been killed on his orders. Worked his way up from hired muscle to the top of the tree. Now he had people to do the sort of jobs he used to do. He didn’t have to bloody his own hands anymore. Unless he wanted to.

  Right now his hands weren’t bloody, just sweaty as they groped at the girl he was dancing with. Blonde bimbo, spray-painted into a dress that was barely capable of covering her underwear. Even if she’d been wearing any.

  Mist knew she could get Stone away from the girl. She’d read his file; she knew what he liked. The thrill of the chase, getting what he couldn’t have.

  That’s why she wore a red dress that covered her from neck to her ankles. But tight enough to show off every curve. She hadn’t been able to eat for the last two hours because the slightest deviation in the flatness of her stomach would ruin the line of the dress.

  All the men in the club stared after her lustfully as she walked by. Some of the women too. She didn’t respond to them, kept her cool. She had to be imperious, regal. Make it obvious that she was out of the league of every man in the club. That would bring Stone running.

  Reaching the centre of the dance floor she started to dance. Six weeks of training with lapdancers and podium dancers. It paid off. She was sex personified. Her lithe body undulated to the rhythms, the black mane of her hair extensions tumbling down her back. She wasn’t just dancing, she was making love to the music.

  She noticed the bouncers keeping an eye on her in case any of the punters got carried away by her display. They needn’t have worried. Everyone stepped back to watch her, giving her a circle of space at the centre of the dance floor.

  But no one watched her more intently than Stone.

  She danced for another couple of numbers then headed for the bar. She perched on a s
tool, a bird of paradise resting before soaring off once more.

  ‘Scotch,’ she told the barman. The alcohol inhibitors she had taken earlier would stop her from losing her edge.

  The barman placed the drink in front of her. ‘It’s already been paid for. Courtesy of the gentleman at the end of the bar.’

  She looked up. Stone. He’d followed her off the dance floor. Lifting her glass, she tipped it in thanks. He raised his in reply.

  He sidled over. The club’s lighting glistened off his black hair, emphasising the strands of silver. His heavy features were handsome in a thuggish kind of way. Strong jaw, broken nose, his ears not quite turned to caulifowers. He was big and mean and tough and she knew she could kill him with her bare hands if she needed to.

  He smiled at her. His teeth were too white; dental implants. His real teeth had been smashed back in his bruiser days. ‘You’re quite a dancer.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘I don’t suppose you’d do me the honour of dancing with me?’

  She nodded past him to where the blonde bimbo stood scowling at them. ‘I don’t think your girlfriend would be too pleased.’

  Stone glanced over his shoulder at the bimbo then turned back to Mist, unconcerned. ‘She’s not my girlfriend. Just someone I met here tonight.’

  ‘You were on intimate terms with her on the dance floor. Are you always that friendly to women you’ve only just met?’

  Stone shrugged. ‘Depends if they want me to be.’

  ‘And if they don’t?’

  ‘Then I’m always the perfect gentleman.’

  ‘I’m sure you are.’ A perfect gentleman who beat and raped women. His fists tearing into them, bruising flesh, breaking bone. His cock and his sex-toys ripping at their insides, violating them in the most disgusting ways possible.

  ‘So what’s your name?’ asked Stone.

  Mist brushed her long black hair extensions over her shoulder. ‘Tanya.’

  ‘Nice name. I’m Jack.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you.’ She extended her hand. He kissed it. Corny.

  Mist glanced over to see the bimbo storming over, thunder in her eyes. ‘You – !’

  That’s as far as she got before Jack’s minder grabbed her arm and dragged her away. ‘Get off me!’ yelled the bimbo. ‘That bitch is horning in on my territory!’

  She slapped at the minder’s face. He twisted her arm and she screamed in pain.

  For a second Mist was a little kid again watching a typical family scene. Dad beating up Mum. Once Mist tried to stop Dad and he hit her, busting her jaw. But she wasn’t a helpless little girl anymore. She started to rise from her seat.

  Then the club’s head bouncer, a small, blonde woman, stepped in, smoothing things over. The minder let the bimbo go, knowing that Stone wouldn’t want to ruin the romantic atmosphere by starting a fight. Just as well, the bouncer had an electro-stunner hidden in her hand, he would have been unconscious before he could even move. As the female bouncer calmed things down another bouncer, a big black man, watched the minder impassively, making sure he didn’t start any trouble. He didn’t, the drama faded, the tension eased.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ said Stone. ‘Dennis gets a little heavy-handed sometimes. I’ll be having a word with him about handling women later.’

  Mist relaxed her fists and settled back on her seat. She’d nearly blown the assignment for the sake of settling an old score that could never be paid. Christ, she was supposed to be a professional. Get back on track. ‘I’m sure you know how to handle women.’

  ‘Never had any complaints.’

  No. No complaints. Dead women can’t complain about anything. Thirty or so of Stone’s body count had nothing to do with business. They’d just been hot dates.

  His love life was a well-known secret but the police were never able to pin anything on him. The bodies were never found and he always had an alibi ready just in case. On top of that when Mist checked up on him she found that some of his men had DNA cleansing training, able to remove all traces of forensic evidence from both his victims and the crime scene. Stone may have been a cruel, vicious bastard but he wasn’t stupid.

  Stone sipped his drink. ‘So, what do you do?’

  Mist ran her finger around the top of her glass. ‘Anything I feel like.’

  Stone chuckled. ‘Me too.’

  They talked for another half-hour. Stone bought her more drinks and did his best to be charming. Eventually, judging her to be just about tipsy enough, he made his move.

  ‘It’s too loud in here. I know somewhere quieter.’

  She picked up her purse. ‘Lead on Macduff.’

  ‘It’s ‘Lay on Macduff.’ I remember doing it at school.’ They headed for the cloakroom. ‘I never liked Macbeth at the time, thought he was gutless letting his wife boss him around all the time, but now, after all the grief my ex-wife used to give me, I just think, I know how you feel, old son.’

  ‘I don’t believe that you could ever be under anyone’s thumb.’

  ‘Don’t matter how tough you are, people’ll find a way to control you if they put their minds to it.’

  Without meaning to she thought of her parents. Dad resenting the marriage parenthood had trapped him in. And Mum cowering under his fists when he took her money from her so he could go out boozing.

  Collecting their coats she and Stone stepped out into the cold night air. The two bouncers on the door nodded to them. Music drifted out of the club, drumbeats and basslines, the melody too faint to hear. Cars drove by, headlights glistening. Black clouds moved overhead, blending into the night, blotting out the stars. But they couldn’t blot out the neon signs of the restaurants lining the opposite side of the street – Chinese, Indian, Italian, Thai. Punters staggered drunkenly between the different bars and pubs.

  Stone’s minder pulled up in a limo. Stone gestured to the car with a grand sweep of his hand. ‘Your carriage awaits.’

  Getting into the car wearing such a tight dress could have been a problem but she’d been practising. She slid gracefully onto the leather seats. Stone sat beside her. A sheet of tinted glass separated them from the minder.

  It was so tempting to kill Stone now. Then she wouldn’t have to suffer him slobbering over her, his hands touching her. Kill him now.

  No. That wasn’t what the client wanted.

  Stone flipped an intercom switch. ‘The Griffin.’

  The Griffin hotel. Stone owned it. He could do whatever he liked there and no one would say a word.

  The car pulled away from the kerb smoothly. It was like riding on air.

  Stone smiled at her. ‘The hotel bar stays open all night. For me anyway.’

  ‘That’s convenient.’

  ‘Isn’t it?’ He rested his hand on her thigh. She resisted the temptation to crush his windpipe. She was going to have to let him do much worse than this before the night was through.

  Stone told her about his businesses. The legitimate ones anyway. She knew all the details already but she listened anyway, nodding and making polite noises at all the appropriate moments.

  Then he told her a bit about his life. Growing up on the streets, ducking and diving until he had enough money scraped together to go legit (officially anyway). The way he told it made him sound like a loveable rogue. He didn’t tell her about the stabbings, the beatings, the shootings, the kneecappings. And he didn’t tell her about his dates.

  The limo pulled up outside the Griffin. It wasn’t the biggest hotel in the city but it was still impressive. Stone walked her along thick plush carpet to the reception. When they reached the oak desk he turned to look at her. ‘Now, do you want to go to the bar or do you want to come to my room?’

  She stroked his chest, slowly, seductively. ‘Guess.’

  Grinning, Stone snapped his fingers at the receptionist. ‘Lucy, my keys.’

  Once Stone had his keycard he steered her towards the lifts. As they entered the lift Stone spoke to his minder. ‘Take the rest of the night off, Denn
is.’

  Stroke of luck. It would make things easier if Dennis wasn’t hanging around outside Stone’s bedroom door. Of course he would probably still be around somewhere in the hotel, particularly if he was part of Stone’s cleanup crew.

  The lift doors slid shut. Fancy grillwork like the bars of an ornate cage. She was just running through her escape plan one more time when Stone kissed her.

  His breath stank of booze and cigarettes as his tongue probed her mouth like a wet slug. His hands grabbed her arse tightly, his fingers sinking into her flesh.

  Stone pulled his lips from hers, gasping slightly. ‘I’ve been wanting to do that all night.’

  ‘Me too.’

  He kissed her again.

  Then the lift doors opened. Taking her hand Stone led her along the corridor to his suite. Swiping the lock with his keycard he threw open the door. ‘What do you think?’

  Old-fashioned furniture filled the suite; chairs and tables, all dark oak, the polish shining in the light of the holo-candles.

  ‘Very nice.’

  ‘The bedroom’s even nicer.’ He embraced her, his bulk dwarfing her slender frame. Kissing her neck Stone shuffled towards the bedroom. Giggling, she shuffled along after him.

  The bed was a giant four-poster. It probably cost more than her car.

  Stone fumbled with the fastenings on her dress. A wasted effort – the self-sealing micro-zipper was absorbed into the fabric of the dress. It took a solvent spray to reverse the reaction.

  He grimaced, impatient. ‘Is this dress expensive?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He tore it from her body. ‘I’ll buy you a new one.’

  She tried to control her trembling. The dress had fitted her so tightly that when he ripped it off her – accompanied by that horrible tearing noise – it had been as though he’d torn off her own skin. Now she stood before him; exposed, naked.