THOMAS CORFIELD

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Sydney — New York — Tokyo — Berlin

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Copyright 2015 Thomas Corfield

SAMPLE

After a few seconds of communal

deliberation, the contents of the hospital’s

ground floor did the same: exploding in

panic and vying to flee Thomas’ vicinity.

Some threw themselves behind pot plants

and others behind desks. The woman and

man from the lift careered back toward it,

scrambling over those who’d gotten there

first, kicking them in the teeth and using

the bleeding mess that resulted as foot-

holds. Cupboards were emptied of buckets

and brooms and stuffed then with staff,

while the less able-bodied took to

brandishing the brooms threateningly and

hiding what they could of themselves in the

buckets. There were screams, wails of

despair and great torrents of sobbing. One

member of staff desperately sutured three

patients together as a sort of human shield,

while others burrowed themselves beneath

the pallored stack in the corner. The

security guards, belting themselves with

batons in a vague attempt at immunity, fled

from whence they’d came, and the man

bleeding upon the desk was hollowed out

and turned into a sort of shelter for three

receptionists and a small child with a lung

full of Lego.

From Chapter 27 – A Certificate Of Proof

CONTENTS

Title Page

Licence Notes

Sample

Opening Chapter

SOME RELEVANT LINKS

A Bit About the Author

The Dooven Books

Writing Wrongly

1

- 1 -

ACCOSTED

DEVELOPMENT

“MISTER Corfield, may I have a word,

please?”

Thomas stopped and looked at her. The

woman was young, pretty and had a

microphone in her hand that she seemed

determined he ingest.

“Have you read any of my books?’ he

asked. “Because if you had, I doubt you’d be

asking the question.”

“I’m a reporter, and I—“

“Are you quite certain?”

“Yes.”

They stood on a pavement of a side

street in a large city. The pavement was not

terribly busy, and Thomas had chosen it for

Writing Wrongly

2

this reason, hoping there’d be less reporters

upon it to pester him, which they had a 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 electronic 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 ought not to 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’s clear. But 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

Writing Wrongly

3

an old-age 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 at the fact!”

“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? Is it really?”

“Yes, it is. Even if you, yourself, are

not.”

“Look,” Thomas sighed. “I’ve just spent

three hours being harangued in court by

them. 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 re-evaluate 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?”

Writing Wrongly

4

“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, alright? 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.”

Writing Wrongly

5

Thomas looked at her, stunned. “What

sort of stupid ques—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?”

“No. Abut 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 blinked at him. “Do you

think the publishing industry’s reaction is an

over-reaction?”

Thomas folded his arms. “You couldn’t

even be bothered re-wording the question,

could you!”

“What?”

“You asked a stupid question, and then

asked it again without even the basic courtesy

Writing Wrongly

6

of trying to make it less so by re-wording it.

That borders on offensive! It really does!”

“Is that a yes?”

“No, actually. 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 I am a

writer! Albeit a bloody awful one! I might

not have readers, lady, 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!”

“Yes,” 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.”

Writing Wrongly

7

“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 is intentional,

isn’t it. You’re being offensive intentionally.”

“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 and shrugged. “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.”

Writing Wrongly

8

“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 the primary reason I’m in this

mess! A reason I’ve just spent three hours

being harangued over by the prosecution!”

“Right, nevertheless—”

“And anyway,” Thomas said, “what the

hell makes you think you’re entitled to

anything, anyway? Because I’ll tell you one

thing, lady: I have nothing left to give,

alright? I have no money, no hope, and no

life, alright? In fact, the only thing I do have,

Writing Wrongly

9

is great 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, lady, 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 and

failed,’ he said, “instead of hiding behind the

excuse of having not dared do either.”

“So, is that a yes?”

“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?”

Writing Wrongly

10

“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

perhaps running an editorial on it.

Writing Wrongly

11

- 2 -

BROKEN

SIDEBOARD

Thomas threw his keys on to 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 sighed. “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.”

“I’m your barrister, Thomas. Not your

bitch. You do realise your performance in

Writing Wrongly

12

court this morning has probably cost you an

exorbitant amount of money?”

“Yes, but I’m not going to back down.

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. You can’t fight this forever, 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 advice—”

“Do you know the greatest irony in all

this?”

Writing Wrongly

13

“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 it would have far better odds if

they’d never gone anywhere 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?”

“That was an argument run on

anecdotal evidence, not a clinical diagnosis.

It helps your defence, but you can’t start a

business entity on it.”

Writing Wrongly

14

“But what about my sessions with

doctor Marjorie? That must count for

something. Even she was crying at one

stage.”

“That was in conjunction with the

restraining order. Not the main case against

you.”

“But they’re related, surely?”

“Yes. Legally. But more in a convoluted

where-the-hell-does-this-bit-go sort of way.”

“Well, there you go.”

“Thomas, there are so many aspects to

this case that sometimes even I get confused.”

“What about if I did something really

stupid?”

“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!”

Writing Wrongly

15

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.”

“Then you have no idea how quickly that

sort of money disappears into the bottomless

pit of matrimony.”

Thomas blinked. “You’re not going to

abandon me, are you? Not you as well!

Please! I feel like a floater 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

Writing Wrongly

16

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,

at all! She looked at me with loathing! With

disgust. She had so much contempt for me,

that it bordered on greed. 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.”

Writing Wrongly

17

“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.”

“Oh.”

Thomas sighed. “Even pretty women

look at me with the sort of disdain

appropriate for something that should be

sealed for legal reasons and then

incinerated.”

“Oh, come now! I’m sure that’s not the

case at all.”

“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.”

Writing Wrongly

18

“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.”

Writing Wrongly

19

- 3-

IT’S DOCTOR,

ACTUALLY

Thomas walked into the office. It was

expensive. Apparent in the diamonds hanging

from the ceiling, and the gold leaf paper

Braden Clencher of Ingress Finance was

rolling his tobacco in.

“Sit down, mister Corfield,” Braden

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—”

Writing Wrongly

20

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 a restraining order

are all evidence of the fact.”

“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 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.”

Writing Wrongly

21

“It’s doctor, actually, and my point is

that considering the considerable exposure

these proceedings have granted, 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?”

Branden 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. “This is the problem—”

“Your writing’s the problem.”

Writing Wrongly

22

“—such 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?”

Thomas 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.”

“That’s not true. It’s a ruse the

prosecution are using to deter potential

readers!”

Writing Wrongly

23

“The only thing deterring readers, mister

Corfield, is your writing—and I use the word

is such a loose context, that it’s already come

undone and dropped its trousers.”

“But that’s my point! How can you

know whether they’re badly written if you

haven’t actually read them?”

There was a chuckle. "Because, mister

Corfield, I don’t need top. As an avid reader

of the Guardian, which seems to insist on

printing examples of your ghastly prose—and

I use the word so loosely that it’s best

described as dismembered—I have come

across enough to know it’s shit.”

“They 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 mental diarrhoea, thank you. I have a

great deal of money to make, and contracting

Writing Wrongly

24

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."

Branden looked at Thomas as though

wishing to do the same to him.

“Despite my brave stand against the

industry,” Thomas said, “it seems that if I am

to get anyone to read my books, I will have to

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.”

Branden 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.”

Writing Wrongly

25

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 dreadful, and I do not want my carpet

ruined.”

“But an editor is professional help!”

Thomas said. “And my 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.”

Writing Wrongly

26

“—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

being published, and success, 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 reputation. Moreover, editing your

books will probably 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

Writing Wrongly

27

you money with your utter lack of talent,

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

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.”

“Would you at least hear my proposal?”

“No.”

Writing Wrongly

28

“Please? And then afterwards, I’ll just

leave. And you won’t have to call security

like you had 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.”

Branden pondered his cigarette. “Only if

you leave whilst reading it,” he said.

“What?”

“You can only read it while being in the

physical process of leaving my office.”

Thomas conceded this with a nod.

“Okay,” said Branden, leaning back and

taking a lungful of burning gold. “Begin.”

Thomas stood uncertainly 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.”

Writing Wrongly

29

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 some 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—’”

Writing Wrongly

30

There was a bang then when Thomas

walked into the door he’d inadvertently

forgotten to open first, causing Branden to

laugh so hard, his peritoneum ruptured.

####