| ONE GOOD REASON "You've had a stroke. Miss Johnson." BEDFORD, ENGLAND. Carla wheeled herself over to her stereo. The sight of the mechanical aids & things to help her was a realisation that she hadn't had a dream. It was real. She put her tape on, by somebody called Screechin' Larry Stringsmith. FANTASTIC guitarist. Music always made her feel better. Not modern, oh no; modern stuff was awful; Carla liked blues, Metal and , hard rock. And eating.. God, she was hungry now. Carla was nineteen. She was tough-looking and had tattoos of archaic rock groups all over her strong brown arms. The most recent one was an electric guitar with flames coming off it on her bicep. Screechin' Larry Stringsmith's lyrics, from his biggest hit, Lying Woman Blues, that went platinum, echoed in Carla's head. "Woman, don't you ever tell me no more lies I love you but all you seem to do is criticise. If you treat me mean, baby, I'll cut ya down to size, But I know why I love you when I look in your eyes." Carla groaned miserably. She put the song on. For the first time since her accident, she gave herself up to pure, velvety, unadulterated ecstasy while Larry sang and played a on CD called Footpaths.. There were people saying they hated his new, dancey stuff.. They weren't real bloody fans then. How many of them sighed his name when they were depressed? Carla sighed his name often. Didn't people know that Larry, and meeting Larry or getting to his concert was all she cared about anymore? He really was her one good reason for living. No one had come to visit her since her accident. Everyone she kept in contact with: Nina, Stelios, Indira........were all in different countries. She didn't really know them anyway; they were only e-mail friends; they didn't visit her, because they couldn't. Even Mark, her best friend, who used to come round her house, just to chat about what was going on in the world, while she recovered. But now he'd stopped coming. He'd been knocking about with the Flirt in The Skirt, Lisa Stanton. Blonde, buxom, caked in horrid makeup,annoying silly little-girl voice. And posh! Ugh! Carla did not get on with her parents either; they had divorced when she was six. Carla knew it had been her fault. She remembered her mother, Stephanie, shouting: "It's your fault, Carla, always your bloody fault. Why'd I have you? Why'd I have you?. I need a drink. I can't cope with your god damned slowness, you idiot! You'r father doesn't want you. I don't want you.. No one has, and no-one ever will!" It was the drink talking. She knew it was! Tears coursed down Carla's face , unusual for her, she never cried, that was "weak".. But now, thinking of Larry Stringsmith,, who was her favourite guitarist,she felt better. His voice was soft and warm on the live recording. It seemed to soothe her; he could have been talking to her directly. She loved his voice, just a nice bit of southern Irish accent.. She loved to hear him speak more than sing or play his guitar. He helped her relax and made her forget how lonely and unpopular she was. When listening to him, she forgot everything else. Everything. The tears stopped. She caressed the pick that she had from Larry's German tour. Now she'd never get to a concert again! The last time she'd been, she'd drooled, screamed constantly and tried to launch herself at the stage. Finally she'd had to be thrown out, screaming and crying. The picture of him, an old fading, one from '94,in the gold, star-shaped frame seemed to smile warmly at her. She looked at his long, curly black hair. His smile was warm and reassuring and genuine. Nowadays he was grey and overweight but Carla still loved him; it was the voice that counted, wasn't it? He looked like he cared; she knew he had hundreds of fans, but he just looked like a decent sort of man. She stroked the picture tenderly. She kissed it. The sound was very loud in her starkly quiet bedroom, which now felt like a fortress. "Larry, oh Larry," she slurred hrough her tears, wishing he could hear and answer. She put another picture up on her wall, there were sixty-three there already. Her heart squeezed; she knew he was unreachable with his status. She thought a moment, then reached for the kitchen knife she kept on her table. She rolled the sleeve of her denim shirt up, found a space on her arm that was not mottled with scars , tattoos and track-marks,, and cut deeply into her arm. The pain was awful, as usual, but she'd become used to it now. She felt tears coming to her eyes. She knew she must not give into the pain. She looked at her own blood with detachment, and felt herself slip into sweet unconciousness while Larry screamed out his torment for a mean woman that he still loved and his picture crashed to the floor.. *** These young, silly girls didn't know what good guitar playing was, for God's sake. God, when Carla had played with the jazz-rock band the Psychotics, with Mark singing, , now that was good She looked at the tattoo. Now she'd never be able to play her beloved guitar again. She'd never be able to use her pick with her name on. "Baby, I am paralysed by your sweet lovin'" That's what Mark had sung. Originally, he'd laughed and said the lyrics were 'a load of shite"; now they seemed almost prophetic and not funny at all. And then Robert Lyman, the drummer, had died from a drug overdose. Carla had tried to kill herself then. These silly young girls, just loved Larry for his looks. They didn't know how he really made her feel. They didn't know what it was to have everyone forget you; they could phone their friends, or their "m8s", in today's world on their snazzy, stylised mobile 'phones and always guarantee that they would get an answering phone call. They didn't know what it was to be unable to take care of your own basic needs, suddenly. Carla also had a recurring, quite bad speech impairment and a stomach that didn't behave quite as it should. She retched violently and threw up often. *** Carla came round from the unconciousness as Larry's caring, skilful fingers worked insanely. "Shhhh. Shhh. Hey, come on, it's all right, it's all right. I'm here now. I'm here to stay." he soothed in that soft voice, smiling reassuringly., stroking her short hair. Then he sang his signature song to her in a very low voice. "I know this woman's love is true, But she can never do to me What you used to do "Larry............" moaned Carla, "everyone's deserted me. Now that I failed being in The Psychotics, they don't want to know me. I tried............I tried, Larry, tried so hard! My friends said they'd come and visit me after my accident. But they haven't. They haven't! Oh, Larry, how could they do that? How could they?" she screamed, raising her fists. Larry caught them easily, raising his voice for the first time. "Now are you gonna calm down or am I gonna have to force you?" he said threateningly, looking stern, his accent thickening. He increased his grip on her wrists, looking ready to explode with rage. Carla screamed. Larry saw the great, jagged, shiny scars on her arm. "Who...who did that to you?" he gasped, shocked.. Carla was silent. She went red. "Oh, no. Jesus, it wasn't...it wasn't...you...?" "Yes." she whispered. "Why? What for?" "Just frustrated, I s'pose," Carla said. It's really nothin'". Then her face crumpled. "I..... I used to be........be a guitarist. Just like you. Then I had theis stroke. I can't play any more. I just get so frustrated sometimes.. That's why..why I do this. I'm so sorry... I'm so sorry." whispered Carla. "It's been so long since I saw other people! I am so..so lonely." She was incoherent, crying her eyes out. A horrible guttural sound escaped her dry, raw throat. She was shivering, shaking so hard that she could hardly speak. "Sssh. Sssh. It's OK. C'mon." Larry put his arms round her, talking softly to her, holding her tightly to him while she cried hysterically, as she'd never cried before. She felt him restoring her strength and his soft, warm fingers and lips soothing the pain of her oozing cuts. He kissed her softly, soothing her spasms. He smiled warmly again. Carla laid her head on his bare chest, running her fingers through his hair, still crying. She woke up, gasping, aware of a terrible thirst, dryness in her mouth . She began retching loudly as she was aware of the redolent stench of urine. Oh, shit! Not again!. The music faded out.. *** BELFAST, IRELAND. 2 weeks later. Larry really needed to update his website. He had had several cross letters about it. He had a biography and collection of his records on there. Larry had been in the world-famous rock group, Distorted Nerves, for a time, then left, then rejoined, then left again. Larry was pleased, and extremely drunk in a corner of his studio. His children, Joseph, Cassie and Sarah, looked at their dad with interest. "What's Daddy doing?" Cassie asked. He had married his assistant and girlfriend, Sinead, last week. Not that that was any of anyone's business. Even though Larry was pushing fifty, he still had some female fans and didn't want to put them off. Ah, God love these fans, he thought, smiling; but they did have ways of finding out confidential information. Millions of girls, some as young as twelve,wrote on his message board every day,saying they loved him. If only he had known just how much and just how badly. He fell over on his Marshall stack singing his head off.. Lisa was walking home one day when she heard a clump, clump, clump. "If you make one sound," a voice said, "I'll make your neck twang like a broken guitar string!" Lisa was vaguely aware of being tied to a tree as her clothes were stripped off. The temperature was zero. "No......noooooooooo......" Lisa called. The heavy footsteps clump-clumped away. Mark found Lisa's frozen, dehydrated body in the morning, with this note attached. A DESPERATE MAN NEEDS A WOMAN TO HOLD. BUT HE WILL ALWAYS LEAVE THEM COLD. Mark got the same treatment. Two days later he recieved a present. It was a Fender Stratocaster. It was smeared with bright red blood and smashed beyond repair. Mark screamed. *** BEDFORD, ENGLAND. 1 MONTH LATER Mark was walking home from a good concert when he felt someone chasing him . "Hey" he slurred, "Wass'goin'on?" The figure dragged him to the nearest graveyard. Too large to be a girl, so must be a boy. Couldn't be Matt, his best friend............... The figure gasped, threw off its mask. It wasn't Matt. "Carla!" Matt gasped. Carla smiled. "You suprised?" "Yes!" Matt addmitted, "But Carla, you're disabled. You can't walk, so how could you......run after me?" He felt sick. Carla had stalked him. She'd killed Lisa, sent the smashed guitar. She'd done everything. She was mad. "You idiot!" Carla said. "I was pretendin'". You'd have given me more sympathy if you knew of my condition. But I recovered quicker'n I thought I would, didn't I? But you stopped comin' to see me, Mark! Just like my parents. You deceitful, lyin' little shit, you loved Lisa, not me! Of course you did: Lisa was pretty and feminine, everything I wasn't. She was the type of girl I can't stand, Mark. She wen' up the bloody wall if she broke a nail or if her dress got dirty! I was only thinkin' of you. Could you really be happy with someone like that? I don't ****** think so! And you split the Psychotics up! I could have mad esomethin' of meself - but no, it was only a temp'ry arrangement, one bad record'n you didn't want to do it anymore! We were good, Mark!" she howled. "You just left me. Oh Lord, you left me....left me to recover on my own........" she half-sang. Mark swallowed. "Look Carla, I know it was hard for you when Rob died of that overdose. It was one of the reasons why I hated being in the Psychotics........" "And what was the other reason, Mark?" Carla bellowed. "Me? I was in love with you all the time and you never noticed. Never asked. Poor little speech-impaired, retarded me was never acknowleged, " she spat. "No......." Mark wailed. "Bloody hell! It was! Now I must kill you!" said Carla. "I've brought my friend along, here he is". She put on her Screechin' Larry Stringsmith tape. "At least he cares," she said bitterly, "you don't. My Larry cares about me more'n you.... do, more'n anyone does. Ain't that right?" she shrieked. Listening to the tape, some slow, bubbling moans jerked out of her and her face contorted. Moans for affection she never had. Moans of desperate loneliness. Carla threw her picture at him. The glass shattered. "Larry!" she moaned, "oh, Larry, no, not you, not you, not you too........not my picture........" She got on her knees, trying to put it back together. She kissed it with so much passion that Mark was amazed, nuzzling it, rubbing it against her face in a childish, almost desperate way, with her ragged, laboured breathing becoming faster than normal.. Mark heard her voice gasping some kind of plea, in between her hot, damp kisses, ".......help me......help me......oh, oh, oh.....no one wants me.....no one wants me....could have been famous....wasn't.....lonely ....so lonely...imprisoned......" "Carla!" Mark shouted. "Larry is a guitarist, he doesn't know you, he can't help you!" "What did you say?" shrieked Carla. "He wrote, "Love, Larry Stringsmith" on the front page of www.screechin-larrystringsmith.com when it was put up! In his own writing. He loves me! I know he does. Why would he write about keeping his l'il woman satisfied if he didn't mean it? He's the only one who really cares for me, and he's waiting to save me. He's sweet and kind and...and.....and decent. He'll help me , I know he will! He helped me recover. We will go off together and we will be together and I shall say it again and again until you believe me, Mark !" There was no reasoning with her. "Look, Carla," Mark said, "to Larry, you are a statistic, you are another fan, you just buy his records! He's got a wife and three children for God's sake!” Then in desperation, he shouted, "Didn't you read......he married Sinead about a week ago? You moron! Don't you know that he doesn't even know you exist?" Yes, that bitch Sinead. Larry's assistant. It was true, she could no longer deny it. .Larry's life didn't have her in it. She loved him so much that it hurt, actually hurt. And he never knew. Carla let out a long, sustained scream. " Why do you always have to bring me bad news? No! No! NOOOOOOOOOO!I hate Sinead! I hate her!" screamed Carla, raising the axe to kill Mark. "I love you so much. I don't want to do this," she wailed. "But you leave me no choice!" Then she heard a noise. Eeeeeeh........ Her eyes widened. Eeeeeeeeeh........ That could only be one thing. Guitar delay. Now playing a complete tune, so long, piercing and loud that both Carla and Mark had to block their ears. The tune was Lying Woman. "NO!" a rich Irish-accented voice shouted. "Lar....ry....?" said Carla. "Is..... that ....you?" "Yes. Listen!" Screechin' Larry Stringmith shouted furiously. Carla's wild eyes turned passive. This was the man she'd loved, fantasised about and plagued www.screechinlarrystringsmith.com with endless requests to contact speaking. Oh, great! As if that wasn't nice enough, he was speaking to her. Oh, his voice................ His voice turned gentle, soft. He sang a song to her. "Now you might've noticed that you are......not acting normally. The reason...." - reason came out ray-zun - "is because of your nasty accident and your parents' divorce. So that is why you have formed this attachment to unreachable things, namely me. But you have to get over it". His voice turned softer, kinder. . "You have to. You will almost certainly be put away now, like in one of my prison songs, if you don't shape up. You can be normal again. You will not come to any more of my concerts, or harm Sinead, or any of my kids. I am not doing another concert now. I have stopped.". He cleared his throat. It was a nice sound that made Carla shiver pleasantly. "Please, Carla." Larry said, his voice quivering with emotion. "Don't do this. Don't do this to yourself. I am a guitarist......I am only a guitarist. I am not worth being someone's whole life! I am not as good as I was. Soon I will have to stop playing. What will you do then. Do not kill yourself!" Carla was spasming and shaking, frothing thirstily at the mouth. She fell forward. "I'm sorry," she moaned, struggling to say the words correctly. "I never meant to do it. Larry, I love you so much. I......I......." She broke down, tears streaming down her cheeks.. For a moment, she was seen exactly as she was, with the toughness stripped away; a very confused, retarded, desperately lonely, and frightened nineteen-year-old. Then Larry said his name as a sign off. There was a hissing sound and a moan,, and Carla liquified with pleasure. Mark had never seen anything like it! *** What Carla thought was Larry talking on a live edit was actually her conscience. Her mind had played a trick on her. She was so obsessed with Larry that she'd only listen to him. Live edits are no subsitute for people. The car crash that Carla had been in had smashed her body so hard that it had changed her psychologically. 3rd June '93 My dear, sweet Larry. I know you care, more than anyone else in the world. I love you so much. Leave that bitch; she doesn't love you like I do. She will be evil and nasty to you and give you the blues. I know she will. I really love you, Larry. With eternal love Carla |