7 Cod Dickensian Crap

Having lost an hour and three more pints to this wildest of goose chases, I decided to do some writing. I still hadn't finished writing, when Bruce the Landlord said he thought that maybe I shouldn't have any more  beer, since I was looking up at him with my chin on the foot-rail at the bar. Concluding he was right, I spent 15 minutes packing my laptop away with the deliberate care of the soon-to-be-paralytic drunk. I still have no memory of the cab drive home.
I woke up on the sofa, grateful for the absence of any smells that might indicate a spell of vomiting overnight. Either I had made it to the porcelain or – and I had to accept this was by far the less probable alternative – I hadn't been sick at all. The pint of water I'd poured, fully intending to drink it if I woke up during the night, had so many bubbles it looked like it had just come out of a Sodastream. I replaced it in the kitchen and managed two mouthfuls, before I had to sit down and breathe deeply.

The laptop was in the messenger bag beside me on the sofa. It was time to look at what deathless – or deadly – prose I'd come up with in the pub, the day before.

"I had no sooner buried my wife than I received a summons to the reading of her late uncle’s will. Truth told, I was not a man brought low by grief. "

Cod-Dickensian crap, I thought, as I pressed delete.

 I checked some e-mails. One from a certain Evergood Joseph of The Kallibar booK Kompany, based in Lagos, was particularly unexpected. I wondered who had advised them on their logo and branding. After sandbox-ing the e-mail, I found out they were aware that E. Wailer, author of "The truly tremendous MacTavish Trilogy" had been dropped by Untethered Publishing Ltd AND, therefore, they themselves were offering him a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to be a million seller if only he – meaning I - could transfer £10,000 in Bitcoin to their account for printing, distrubution and re-marketing.
Clicking on "block senders" was particularly gratifying.

Over the next few days, I tried some very dubious sites in search of Prospero Vint. "Findtheb*stard.gq" and "WhotheF*ckis.link" were just two of them. Disposable e-mails and VPNs prevented most of the inevitable spam… But I still couldn't find him.
Giving up is something I've been good at, over the years. Not because things become too difficult, really. It's more, "Is that it? What if I do figure out how to do this? Then what?" And then of course, I do bore easily. I'm boring you, now, aren't I?  
And then there are the times, when I think I've given up, but I haven't, not really. The MacTavish Trilogy took seven years to write from the first word to the last, but Volume II, 'Mississippi MacTavish', perched on a sandbar, half-finished, for two years.
So, ten days later, thinking I'd given up on the whole business, I got a number withheld notification on my phone-screen. Nowadays, I answer them, ever since I missed a call from a GP over a dermatologist's appointment. When I got back to them, I'd missed my chance of getting a lump investigated at least for six months. It wasn't anything, just an old-man lump, but… you know.

'You'll hear my voice, on the wind…' The voice was a bit cracked and quavery, but I knew it was ex-WO2 Dave Dee, so I sang ' 'Cross the sand' in a voice that was very nearly worse. I waited for Dave to stop coughing and asked him if we could meet up for a chat.
'Can't.' He coughed again. I heard him fumbling with something or other. Then the sound of someone using a mask to breathe. I kept talking. 'It's not just a lantern-swing-pull-up-a-sandbag thing, Dave. I'd really like your help with something.'
The mask-breathing sound stopped. Dave's voice was breathy – and weaker still.
'I'm in Bexhill-On-Sea. In the British Legion place. Satis House. Better make it sooner, rather than later.'

He disconnected the call before I had a chance to ask him where he'd got my mobile number.