Writing Wrongly

The Complete Manuscript

Copyright 2016 Thomas Corfield This book contains adult themes.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

This book is based on actual events. However, names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents have been altered. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events means they haven’t been altered enough.

Legal procedure has also been altered for creative purposes.

References to material of faith and references to mental illness are made with no intent to ridicule belief or belittle suffering.

Read the books referred to in Writing Wrongly and visit the author site. Both are so dreadful that they’re bound to make you feel better about yourself.

Writing Wrongly

veryone fell silent, which left Thomas more uncomfortable than if they’d been rioting against him specifically.

“Mister Corfield, how do you plead?”

“Is that the same as begging?”

“No, it is not.”

“Ah—well—that’s a pity, because I’m quite good at that.”

The court room was full in the sense that Thomas had become very popular, though not in a good way. Most of the jury hated him, something evident in the large quantities of phlegm they doused him in whenever he arrived in the dock. He no longer bothered smiling at them, having assumed his smiling was what they’d taken offence to. But it soon became apparent this wasn’t what bothered them; evident in the large quantities of phlegm they doused him in when he no longer smiled at them.

Thomas found social convention confusing. As far as he understood it, smiling should not result in being doused with phlegm, and being doused in large amounts of it didn’t help to alleviate his bewilderment.

Confusion was one of the reasons that he was in this predicament.

That, and his spelling.

“Mister Corfield?”

“Yes?” “How do you plead?”

“Can I get back to you on that?”

“We’ve had three adjournments already.”

“Is that at yes?”

1

Thomas Corfield

“No, Mister Corfield, it is not.”

He looked at his barrister, who was busy mouthing the word ‘guilty’ at him. But he wasn’t guilty. None of this was his fault. At least, not intentionally. “Can I ask my barrister, please?”

The Judge, a middle aged women wearing the body of a man, hung her head. She’d been doing a lot of that lately, and he wondered if her neck had a separate agenda to the rest of her.

“Mister Corfield, you need to plead guilty, or not guilty. The court needs a response.”

“Yes, but the thing is that my confusion won’t let me give one.”

“Then I suggest you take your counsel’s advice. His mime couldn’t be any clearer. Even the jury are doing it.”

Thomas glanced at them. They were also mouthing ‘guilty’ at him, which was surprising, considering he hadn’t paid them nearly as much as he’d paid his barrister.

“I need time to think about this—” “You have had time, Mister Corfield. Ample time. In fact, you’ve had more time for deliberation than I give in sentences to those found guilty of indecent exposure.” It was said in a manner suggesting she could do with some. “Mister Corfield, I am not going to spend the rest of my career indulging your procrastination. This case may have become a media circus, but I am beginning to find it tiresome. Plead, Mister Corfield, before I do something illegal myself.”

“Look,” said Thomas—which was met with a groan from everyone, “I’m neither guilty nor innocent. Yes, I wrote some dreadful books, but no, I did not wish to decimate an the entire industry as a consequence—” “Mister Corfield,” the Judge said, after supporting most of her head in her hands, “we are past this stage. Both the prosecution and your defence have had their say. It is now time for yours, which must consist of one or two words only: guilty or not guilty.”

“But it’s not as simple as that—” “It is, Mister Corfield. And so I shall ask again: to the charge of decimating an entire commercial sector of the economy, how do you plead?”

“Well, it depends what you mean by decimate.”

Another communal groan.

The Judge leant forwards and glared at him across glasses that 2

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were no less appeased. “How. Do. You. Plead?”

“Can I ask him something?” said Thomas, pointing at the prosecution, and inparticular the bald man heading it.

“I’m sorry?”

“Can I ask him something?”

“Ask him?”

“Yes.” “Ask him what?”

“A question. It won’t take long. It’s quite short.”

“It’s highly irregular for the accused to ask a question of the prosecution.”

“Well, that’s the thing about media circuses, isn’t it? They’re full of surprises.”

She thought for a moment. “Actually, no,” she said. “You cannot. I’ve had enough of this. You will plead instead.”

“Please.”

“No.” “Go on, and then I’ll plead.”

She looked at him. “It had better be quick.”

“Oh, it will be.” Thomas cleared his throat and looked around for a bucket to expectorate into. When there wasn’t one, he swallowed instead, before turning his attention to a middle-aged man who been saying some pretty awful things about him over recent months. “You’ve said some pretty dreadful things about me over recent months,” he said, “most of which most of which are either untrue or should be. So I’d be interested to know; have you actually read my books?”

The man looked at the Judge with the sort of surprise generally reserved for spontaneous human combustion. With a sigh, she nodded that he answer before someone required an obituary.

“I haven’t, no.”

“Why not?” asked Thomas. “Surely, to glean some insight to my apparent literary depravity, you would have glanced through them at the very least?”

The man looked at the Judge again, who’d removed her glasses and was squeezing at the bridge of her nose as though trying to remove it in one piece.

“Because, Mister Corfield,” he said, “your books are so dreadful that their very existence has decimated the world of literature.” He turned to the jury, delighted to reinforce the 3

Thomas Corfield

prosecution’s case. “As a consequence, we have seen illiteracy become something to aspire to and book burnings have become rife. Indeed, some libraries have been set on fire not by vandals, but their own librarians. Your books,” he said, turning back to Thomas, “are so utterly dreadful, that the publishing industry has been left haemorrhaging credibility and is on the brink of financial collapse.”

“Yes, but have you read them?”

The man chuckled. “I am not that irresponsible.”

“So you haven’t actually read them?”

“Mister Corfield, your books are so utterly ghastly that any decision regarding reading them has been taken entirely out of my hands.”

“That’s not an answer either.”

The Judge released her nose, which stayed in place, and said, “We have been over this, Mister Corfield. Many times. Too many times, in fact. If he reads your books there’s a significant risk that Mister Philotyi-Hjrtttuiy-Splung will be too mentally impaired to represent the prosecution.”

Thomas looked at the opposite wall defiantly. “I just don’t see how you can make an informed judgement about any of this if you haven’t actually read the books supposedly responsible.”

“Mister Corfield,” she said, “we’ve just endured three months of specialist medical opinion insisting that no one should read them for not only their own mental well-being, but the well-being of the public at large. That’s how dreadful your writing is.” She sat up, having had enough. “I am not going over this again.

Opportunity for presenting prosecution and defence has been and gone, and frankly, some of us are no better for it.”

“I just can’t accept that they’re that dreadful,” Thomas said.

“They’re just books, for goodness sake. Admittedly, the spelling’s questionable in places—” “They don’t have spelling, Mister Corfield. That’s the problem.”

“And the punctuation could do with some improvement—” “Tell me, Mister Corfield—in your own words—what’s the difference between spelling and punctuation?”

“I’m sorry?”

“What is the difference, as you see it, between spelling and punctuation?”

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“Punctuation?”

She nodded “Well, the spelling, for a start—” “Objection!” Thomas’ barrister cried. “Your Honour, I insist this line of questioning be refused.”

“Even though it’s your client doing the questioning?”

“Particularly because it’s my client doing the questioning. It’s clear he has no idea what he’s talking about.”

“I don’t know if you can raise an objection against your client.”

“Why not? Everyone else has.”

“Look,” said Thomas, “can I just go home? I’ve said I’m sorry.”

“That’s not good enough, Mister Corfield,” the Judge said.

“Not when you’ve decimated an entire industry.”

“But I’ve said I’m sorry. I’ve burnt all my copies, and everyone else has burnt theirs. I don’t see what more I can do besides apologise and incinerate books. I’d incinerate myself if it helped, but my psychiatrist won’t let me use matches.”

“Objection!”

“Yes—your psychiatrist,” she said, ignoring Merchison and shuffling through papers. “She’s on stress leave, as I understand it.”

“I’m glad someone understands it.”

“Her report was most interesting. I know we’ve looked at this earlier, but I still find it extraordinary.” She pulled out a paper and stared at it, before holding it up to the light. “It’s the only report I’ve ever seen in my fifty-three years where the ink’s run from tears.”

“She does cry a lot,” Thomas admitted.

“And I understand she’s read you books?”

He nodded. “A bit of them. The first page at least. Well, some of it. She definitely read the title. I remember that much because I had to help her spell it out. It’s why I like her, you see. Because she made an effort. I think Doctor Margery’s an excellent psychiatrist.”

The Judge lowered the paper and looked at him. “You do realise she’d de-registered herself?”

“It could be worse.”

“And admitted herself into an asylum.”

“Told you.”

5

Thomas Corfield

“Tell me, Mister Corfield; why do you think she cries?”

“Well, considering she starts getting tearing halfway through our sessions and then is sobbing by the end of them, I’m presuming it’s because she’ll miss me.”

“Miss you.” It was said flatly.

“Yes.” He shrugged. “Either that or she hates me.”

There was another silence.

“And do you think she hates you, Mister Corfield?”

‘No, I don’t think so.”

There was the sort of sigh associated with being forced to re– endure something traumatic from childhood. “Mister Corfield, you do understand that the Publishing Industry is arguing that you’re a danger and serious threat to the public?”

“Yes. But so are head-on collisions. Can I go now, please?”

“I don’t think you fully understand the gravity of the situation you’re in.”

“You’re probably right,” said Thomas. “I find it all very confusing and tend to gloss over the details and instead look at the broader picture.”

There was another concerned stare.

“And what is the broader picture, Mister Corfield?”

“I think it’s a plate of sandwiches.”

She glanced as Merchison, before asking, “Has your barrister been explaining things to you adequately?”

“Yes, but I don’t really understand what he’s on about.”

“Counsel for the defence,” she said. “I take it that you have been explaining the proceedings to your client?”

Barrington Merchison-Merchison stood. “Indeed we have, Ma’am. Unfortunately, Thomas finds it difficult to understand things.”

“What sort of things?”

“Words, Ma’am. Which is not particularly surprising, considering why we’re all here festering in insanity’s hinterland.”

The Judge sighed one of those long ones reserved for mortal expiration. “Mister Corfield,” she said, “because this case is unprecedented, I’m going to give you one more adjournment in order to allow your defence to explain the gravity of your predicament to you, as you’re clearly in more of a mess than some of your better attempts at punctuation. We will return in two weeks time. If, by then, you still refuse to plead, then I shall 6

Writing Wrongly

overrule your contribution and take my opinion wholly from the jury. Do you understand?�

Before he could say that he didn’t, there was a cheer from the jury, followed by lots of phlegm and at least one brick.

Thomas ducked and it went through some cabinetry.

7

Thomas Corfield

ister Corfield, may I have a word, please?”

Thomas stopped and turned. The woman was young, pretty and held a microphone in a manner suggesting he ingest it.

“Have you read any of my books?’ he asked. “Because if you had, you certainly wouldn’t be asking for any.”

“I’m a reporter, and I—“ “Are you sure?”

“Yes.” They stood on a pavement of a side street in London. The pavement wasn’t busy, and Thomas had chosen it for this reason, hoping there’d be less reporters upon it to pester him, which they had a growing habit of doing. He didn’t want to be perused by reporters. He’d had enough of them. They kept asking him nasty questions and shoving bits of recording equipment in his face.

“Are you certain you’re a reporter?” he asked. “Because I thought journalists preferred chasing earth-shattering news about exploding dolphins and celebrity bosoms—or is it celebrity dolphins and exploding bosoms? Regardless, you shouldn’t be interested in the pathetic rambling of a hopeless writer.”

“I’m not interested in celebrities or dolphins—” “What about bosoms?”

“I’m interested in your court-case.”

“Yes, that much I understand. Though I can’t imagine why.

Even I fail to see what all the fuss is about. I mean, really, what have I done to deserve all this attention? All I’ve done is write some dreadful books. That’s all. I haven’t set fire to an old-age 8

Writing Wrongly

pensioner, or bankrupted the state of New York. I haven’t found a cure for stupidity and then accidently trodden on the vial it was contained in while doing a dance of joy.”

“No,” she agreed, “that’s true. But no other writer has ever gotten the entire publishing industry to hate them, either. So it’s a fascinating story.”

Thomas sighed. “Is it, though? Is it really?”

“Yes, it is. Even if you, yourself, are not.”

“Look,” Thomas said. “I’ve just spent three hours being harangued in court by their legal representatives. Fortunately, I managed to escape out of a toilet window to avoid the throng of media wanting to humiliate me further, so I am not inclined to discuss the matter with you. Frankly, I think you should reevaluate what you, as a reporter, are reporting on, because I am just a sad wanker who’s having a really bad life at the moment.”

“But you can’t deny the public’s fascination with the case?”

“No, I don’t deny their fascination with the case. Nor do I deny the swathes of loathing the public seem intent on swamping me with, either.”

“So you don’t agree with the public’s perception of the case?”

“I don’t even agree with my barrister’s perceptions of the case.

This whole charade is mad. I wrote some books, all right? They’re dreadful—and I’m the first to admit it. So bad that the publishing industry wants to crucify me. That’s the only perception I‘m aware of—and it’s mad!”

“You think the publishing industry’s reaction is an over-reaction?”

“No. Their parading my skinned corpse down main street in a deep-fat fryer would be an over-reaction. Although no doubt you lot would find some far better photo-opportunities.”

“You don’t agree with it?”

“With what—skinning my corpse?”

“No, the industry’s reaction to your books.”

Thomas looked at her, stunned. “What sort of stupid—? Tell me, have you been doing this long?”

“Doing what?”

“This job—this journalism-reporting thing. Have you been doing it long?”

She shrugged. “About a year.”

“Right. Starting from when—yesterday?”

9

Thomas Corfield

“No. About a year ago. Why?” “Because that is possibly the most stupid question I have ever been asked in my life—other than mother asking me what name I wanted when I turned nine.”

The reporter stared. “Do you think the publishing industry’s reaction is an over-reaction?”

Thomas folded his arms. “You couldn’t even be bothered rewording the question, could you?”

“What?”

“You asked a stupid question, and then asked it again without even the basic courtesy of trying to make it less so by re-wording it.

That borders on offensive. It really does.”

“Is that a yes?”

“Is what a yes?”

“That you think the publishing industry’s reaction to your writing is an over-reaction?”

“Actually, no. And if you want something to quote for your silly paper, then quote this: Yes, my writing’s dreadful, and yes, everyone hates me, and yes, an entire industry is trying to bankrupt me. But none of that matters, because I am a writer! Albeit a bloody awful one! I might not have readers, I might not have money, and I may well have a clinical aversion to punctuation! But I will never stop, do you hear? I shall never stop writing!”

“I see,” said the woman. “I believe that’s what the industry is afraid of. Tell me, how has this affected your family life?”

“I don’t have a family life.”

“Your social life, then?”

“I don’t have one of those either.”

“Okay, what about your love life?”

“Are you being offensive, intentionally?”

“No,’ she said, “I’m simply trying to get a picture of the way this has affected you.”

“Well, how about you picture this: close your eyes, use your imagination, and write the hell whatever you want.”

“I don’t think that’s a very good idea.”

“Oh, really? Why, pray?”

“Because I suspect that’s what you do, and look at the trouble it’s got you into.”

Thomas blinked at her. “It’s intentional, isn’t it. You’re being offensive intentionally.”

10

Writing Wrongly

“Not at all. I’m just doing my job.”

“What a wonderful, morally indifferent excuse, that is.”

“Nevertheless, I’d like to know how it has affected you.”

“Oh, I’m sure you would! Your thinly veiled voyeurism is so thinly veiled it borders on naked.”

“Is there nothing you can tell me about how all this has affected you?”

He sighed. “I don’t know—I don’t even know what I do any more. I wake up in the morning, lie in bed for a while hoping this is all a dream, and then get up when I realise it isn’t.”

“So you’re depressed?”

“My God, you’re brilliant, aren’t you?”

“Are you depressed?”

“Would you like me to be?”

“I’d like you to answer some questions.”

“Then try asking some sensible ones.”

“Like what?”

“Oh, great. So now I have to do your job for you?”

“Not at all. But you telling me what to ask is apparently the only way I might get anything coherent from you.”

Thomas stared at her. “Coherent—have you read my books?

My fundamental lack of coherence is one of the reasons I’m in this mess! A reason I’ve just spent three hours being assaulted with by the prosecution!”

“Right, nevertheless—” “And anyway,” Thomas said, “what makes you think you’re entitled to answers? Because I’ll tell you one thing; I have nothing left to give, all right? I have no money, no hope and no life, all right? In fact, the only thing I do have, is swathes of reporters intent on exploiting my situation, for their ignorant, voyeuristic readers, to enable them to feel a little bit better about their own meaningless, useless lives by reading about one far worse!”

“Is that a yes?”

Thomas sighed and rubbed his face. “Look, I’ll tell you the one thing that gets me out of bed in the morning.”

She raised the microphone.

“Knowing that I have at least tried writing some books, despite my failure,’ he said. “I’m glad I haven’t made excuses for not daring to do either.”

“So, is that a yes?”

11

Thomas Corfield

“What?”

“Is that a yes to your being depressed?”

“Oh, for fu—do you want me to be depressed?”

“Are you?”

“Why don’t you just bugger off?”

“Why don’t you just answer the question?”

“Why don’t you take that microphone,” Thomas said, “shove it up your backside, and record the meal you had last night?” He turned, and stormed up the street, muttering things about leaving the thing in there, and then running an editorial on it.

12

Writing Wrongly

homas threw his keys on the sideboard, looked at them, and then threw the sideboard. His phone was ringing. He answered it. Fortunately, it had not been on the sideboard.

“Hello?”

“Thomas?”

“No, it’s Lord Byron.”

“Very droll. It’s Merchison.”

Thomas rubbed his face. “I know who you are, Merchison,” he said. “We’ve just spent the morning together in court. In fact, we’ve spent so much time together over the past six months, that I’m thinking of ringing your wife and asking her whether it’s my turn.”

“You’re welcome to her. You do realise your performance in court this morning has probably cost you an exorbitant amount of money?”

“Yes, but I’m not going to plead, Merchison. I can’t. I’m not guilty despite being guilty. It’s a terrible conundrum. And anyway, the Judge doesn’t like me. She’s made that quite clear from the beginning when she threw her gavel at me, remember? I’ve still got the dent.”

“Sometimes what we think is unfair, is actually in our favour.”

“I don’t care, Merchison. I’m not going to stop writing just because some industry wants me to.”

“Well, that’s the thing. You might have to if things are found in their favour. You can’t delay the inevitable, Thomas. In two weeks this thing comes to a head. The prosecution have vast resources to draw upon, whereas you have next to nothing—” “I know,” Thomas said. “Your fees have cleaned me out better than a three-course laxative.”

“I’m doing the best I can, Thomas. But if you refuse to take my 13

Thomas Corfield

advice—” “Do you know the greatest irony in all this?”

“What, that you really are a dreadful writer?”

“No. That the prosecution are being financed by the profits publishers have made from writers.”

There was a sigh on the other end. “Thomas, life is not fair. In fact, the majority of those living would have far better odds if they’d gone nowhere near it in the first place. But the fact is, you are in this up to parts you didn’t even know you had.”

Thomas said nothing and tried to right his sideboard. But the bit he pulled at, snapped, and he fell backwards onto his keys.

“As much as I admire your conviction, Thomas, the fact is, you’re about to run out of money. And as much as I’d like to—which admittedly is not very much—I can’t do this as a charity.”

“Not even on the grounds of my being insane?”

“You know that Doctor Marjory’s resignation has rendered her professional conclusions invalid. They have helped your defence up to a point, but you certainly can’t start a business with it.”

“But I had so many sessions with her. That must count for something.”

“We can use her reports regarding the restraining orders, but her self-admission to hospital only reinforces the prosecution’s case against you.”

“But they’re related, surely?”

“Yes. Legally. But so is my mother. It’s never simple, Thomas.”

“Isn’t that what I pay you for?”

“Look, this case is unprecedented and has so many aspects that sometimes even I get confused. I’m deliberating over harnessing the expertise of a colleague of mine—” “What about if I did something really stupid. Would that help?”

“Like what? Pissing off the entire publishing industry? Look, Thomas, I admire you. I admire what you believe in. I even admire what you stand for. I don’t admire your writing, obviously—” “Obviously.”

“—but I have a practice to run.”

“Merchison, you make one and a half million a year!”

A sigh. “Are you married, Thomas?”

“You know I’m not. I don’t even have a girlfriend since all this started—not since those blasted injunctions, anyway.”

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“Then you have no idea how quickly that sort of money disappears into the bottomless pit of matrimony.”

Thomas cringed in sudden realisation. “You’re not going to abandon me, are you?” he said. “Not you as well! Please! I feel like a floating turd in a bathtub of rubber-duckies. I can’t do this on my own. I can’t fight these people. They’ll crucify me. They’ll flail me, boil me, and then shave bits off me, before sticking said bits between two slices of wholemeal and make me eat myself—” “I’m not going to abandon you, Thomas—” “—and then force me to watch chewed wholemeal come out of the holes their initial flailing made—” A sigh. “Thomas, please don’t cry. I’m not going to abandon you.

The publicity you’re generating me alone is at least a million a year—” “And then they’ll make me eat it again—” “Thomas, please—” “And then there’s the thing with the deep-fat fryer—” “The what?”

“And all those blasted journalists! Do you know I was accosted by a very pretty one after you helped me out the window?”

“This morning?”

“Yes.” “Lucky you.”

“No, Merchison, not lucky. Very unlucky. She didn’t accost me in a good way. She looked at me with loathing. With disgust. She had so much contempt for me, that it bordered on pathological generosity. And she didn’t even know me! What chance have I got to make a life for myself after all this?”

“I’ve never known you to be so upset, Thomas. You’re usually just incensed.”

“I’m sorry, but I just sat on my keys quite badly.”

“Oh.” “And I haven’t dared get up yet.”

“Oh?” “No. I think there’s a distinct possibility I might have unlocked my bottom.”

“Right.”

Thomas sighed. “Even attractive women look at me with the sort of disdain reserved for something that should be discarded for legal reasons and then incinerated.”

“Oh, come now! I’m sure that’s not the case at all.”

15

Thomas Corfield

“It was!”

“Perhaps she had conjunctivitis?”

“She spat on me, Merchison!”

“Oh.” “Well, not spat, exactly. But there was some distinct dribble at one stage.”

“Look on the bright side: you’re famous.”

“So was Hitler—and he was rich.”

“Well, there you go then.”

“Are you suggesting I become a fascist dictator and attempt to take over the world?”

“I think you’d have a far better chance at success than you will fighting this.”

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homas walked into the office. It was expensive. Apparent in the diamonds hanging from the ceiling, and the gold leaf paper Brandon Clencher of Ingress Finance was rolling his tobacco in.

“Sit down, Mister Corfield,” Brandon said, not looking up from rolling.

“It’s Doctor, actually.”

“Sit down, Mister Corfield.”

Thomas did so.

The manager looked up. “I meant on a chair.”

Thomas got up, and then did so.

“And what can we do for you this morning?”

“Well,” said Thomas, “as you know, I’m a writer, and—” There was a chuckle as the cigarette was popped into his mouth. “A writer? Surely not. I think the general populous is aware you are hardly anything of the sort.”

“I said I was a writer,” Thomas said. “I didn’t say I was a good one.”

“You don’t have to: a legal battle, several injunctions and some restraining orders are all evidence of your inadequacies.”

“Why don’t you light that thing and let me speak?”

There was shrug and a gold lighter was flicked to do so.

“I have come to the conclusion that the reason I’m not a good writer is that I have overlooked certain basic principles of the craft.”

“Such as?”

“Well, spelling, predominantly. And punctuation. And plot 17

Thomas Corfield

development, for that matter. And, well, pretty much all of it. Even some of the page numbers are dodgy.”

“I am a very busy man, Mister Corfield, so please get to the point.”

“It’s Doctor, actually, and my point is that considering the remarkable exposure my legal proceedings have generated, it appears I have gained no readers as a consequence—” “That’s because they’re dreadful.”

“The readers?”

“No, your books.”

“Have you read them?”

“Fortunately not.”

“So how can you be sure?”

Brandon sighed and puffed at smoke. He looked at the cigarette. It seemed to agree with him, which was odd considering he’d just set fire to the thing. “Because, Mister Corfield, the legal circus you have surrounded yourself with leaves me no choice but to be reminded of said quagmire everytime I read the morning paper.

And as I am an avid reader of the Guardian, which publishes some of the more ghastly examples of your work, I’m left not having to.

Which is fortunate, considering they’re so ghastly."

Thomas sighed. “That’s is the problem—” “Your writing’s the problem.”

“—their reporting has deterred potential readers from curiosity to see what all the fuss is about. In fact, sales of my books have plummeted rather than soared—which is remarkable considering there were no sales to being with.”

“And you find this surprising, why, exactly?”

He shrugged. “I just don’t think it’s very fair, that’s all.

Controversy should generates interest in a subject, but the only thing the publishing industry is generating for me is loathing. So much so, that the public can’t be bothered making up their own mind about my books. Including you.”

“Your books cause serious health issues, Mister Corfield. It’s been established you suffer a peculiar sort of mental psychoenteristis. Which may well be contagious.”

“You see? That’s not true! Psychoenteritis a ruse the prosecution are using to deter potential readers.”

“The only thing deterring readers, Mister Corfield, is your writing—and I use the word in such a loose context, that it’s al18

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ready come undone and dropped its trousers.”

“But that’s my point! How can you know whether my books are badly written if you haven’t actually read them?”

There was a chuckle. "Because, Mister Corfield, I don’t need to.

The Guardian’s examples of your prose—and I use the word so loosely that it’s best described as dismembered—proves it’s shit.”

“The Guardian intentionally choose some of the worst bits, so it’s hardly a fair representation.”

“I would rather take the opinion of industry professionals over the inane rantings of a dreadful writer whose books don’t even spell the author’s name correctly. I don’t want pyschoenteritis, Mister Corfield. I don’t want your mental diarrhoea, thank you. I have a great deal of money to make, and contracting runny mental pooh is not going to assist in its manufacture.”

“It’s Doctor, actually, and I think you’ve hit the nail on the head with that last comment."

Brandon looked at Thomas as though wishing to do the same to him.

“Regardless of my defiance and refusal to plead,” said Thomas, “it appears that the only way I’ll get anyone to read my books is if I have them edited—” Brandon choked on laughter. “Edited? Are you serious? You have been told in court that nobody should touch your books with a six foot pole attached to an even longer one! What on earth makes you think you can get an editor to go near the things?”

“Money.”

Brandon looked at him quizzically. “Money,” he said, flicking ashes into a fish bowl upon his desk. “Interesting. Though I must say that although you’re speaking my language, I don’t understand what you mean.”

Thomas frowned. “I thought you hadn’t read my books.”

“What?”

“Nothing. Look, I need money. That’s why I’m here.”

“Mister Corfield—“ “It’s Doctor, actually.”

“Mister Corfield, may I suggest that rather than these fanciful ideas about editing your so-called books, perhaps you get some professional help, instead. Pyschoenteritis sounds absolutely dreadful, and I do not want my carpet ruined.”

“But an editor is professional help!” Thomas said. “And my 19

Thomas Corfield

books just need—” “Forget your books, Mister Corfield. Everyone else wants to.”

“Can’t you just give me a little bit of money?”

“No.” “Why not?”

“I am not a charity, Mister Corfield—” “Are you sure? You’re clearly doing that suit a favour.”

“—and what’s more, I don’t much like you. You’re annoying.

And this is the third time you’ve come in here threatening my carpet.”

Thomas sighed. “Then I don’t know what to do.”

“I suggest you get some friends, Mister Corfield. Because it won’t matter how much money you get: the fact is that editing and becoming properly published and respected is just not going to happen. It’s just not. I mean, your legal bill must be astronomical already.”

“It is, but the good thing about astronomical things is that they tend to be very far away.”

“It’s just not going to happen, Mister Corfield.”

“It will. I just need money.”

“It will take far more than money with your lack of talent.

Moreover, it appears that editing your books will be classified as criminal activity, shortly. No one will lend you money. Not with your legal debt and still pending prosecution. And no one will lend you money considering your utter lack of ability, either. Not at Ingress Finance. Not at any lending institution. Not at any bank.

Not in this country. Not anywhere. It’s just not going to happen.”

“Even so—” “Find some friends, Mister Corfield. Get some help. Because you need that more than any of us.”

“Yes, look, about that—” “I’m a very busy man, Mister Corfield.”

“It’s Doctor, actually, and I have proposal that I’ve written—” “Mister Corfield, you are what we refer to in the industry as a complete wanker. Everyone hates you. Even your mother. And that’s not me saying so: she told me. Being properly published is just not going to happen. You’ve alienated the industry, you’re hated by thousands, your writing’s shit, and frankly, so are you— and that’s not my opinion, that’s a quote from last Wednesday’s Guardian.”

20

Writing Wrongly

“Would you at least hear my proposal?”

“No.” “Please? And then afterwards, I’ll just leave. And you won’t have to call security like you were forced to last time.”

There was a sigh, a flick of cigarette and a weary blink of indulgence. “You’ll leave immediately?”

Thomas nodded. “I won’t even wait for your response.”

Brandon pondered his cigarette. “Only if you leave whilst reading it,” he said.

“What?”

“You can only read your proposal while physically leaving my office.”

Thomas conceded this with a nod.

“Okay,” said Brandon, leaning back and taking a lungful of burning gold. “Begin.”

Thomas stood and unfolded a small piece of paper. He cleared his throat and looked at it. The paper, not his throat, which is anatomically impossible without mirrors and some decent lighting. “‘Why I should be given money for editing, by Thomas Corfield. ’” “Take some steps, Mister Corfield.”

Thomas did so. “‘Please give me some money so I can edit my books. I know they’re shit, but it’s only because I am. If they’re edited, they’ll be much better—’” “Why are you not already at the door, Mister Corfield?” “‘—I’ll even give you a copy. I like writing. The stories are quite nice if one trawls through their convoluted, disjointed, grammatically inconsistent farce. At least, I think they are. I can’t quite remember. They were when I wrote them. If someone else could help me with spelling, I might be able to read them myself and remember. Then I’d know for certain—’” “Out the door, Mister Corfield.” “‘—gosh I’d like some money. Please give me some? Just some?

You’ve got loads. I’ve seen your house. Well, one of them anyway.

And your daughters look expensive, too—’” “Bye, Mister Corfield.” “‘—please. Go on. I’m desperate. I have no friends. Even my mother hates me—’” There was a bang when Thomas walked into the door he’d inadvertently forgotten to open first, causing Brandon to laugh so hard, his peritoneum ruptured.

21