The Devil's Copper

  The Devil’s Copper

  Copyright © 2020 by Jamie Crothall

  Published 2021 by Feybreak Books

  Publisher’s Disclaimer

  The following thriller is a work of fiction. All characters are purely fictional. This book contains violence and mature subject matter; reader discretion is advised. Please don’t pirate, or in any other way illegally reproduce this book. Because screwing authors out of their royalties is bad. If you like this book, please remember to leave a review.

  This book won 2nd Place in the 2020 Write-Fighters 3-Day Novella Contest. As such, the author of this book is a total badass, and holds the Write-Fighters seal of approval.

  Table of Contents

  Dedications

  Introduction

  Pologue

  The Devil's Copper

  Epilogue

  Addendum: Walter

  About the Author

  Dedications

  To my friends. Those who eventually left Sudbury, as well as those who stayed. Quite a divisive subject, isn’t it?

  INTRODUCTION

  Fun fact: The word ‘nickel’ comes from the term ‘kupfernickel’, which is German for ‘Devil’s Copper’. The name was ‘coined’ because the mineral identified by miners in the 18th century looked like copper, but took considerably more effort to extract, and wasn’t as malleable or useful. The name itself derived from ‘kupfer’ meaning copper, and ‘Nickel’ which was an old German name for a troublesome spirit (similar to ‘Old Nick’). It was not until a Swedish baron derived a process for extraction that the nature of nickel was discovered, and he retained its supernatural namesake.

  Meanwhile in Canada, the first mining endeavour, ‘The Canadian Copper Company’, was founded in the 1880’s and was partnered with the New Jersey-based ‘Orford Refining Company’. They set up a plant (and subsequent community) known as ‘Orford Village’ to treat and upgrade matte prior to shipping it to New Jersey. This community later became known as Copper Cliff, which is now a neighbourhood within the City of Sudbury. After finding that the ore was rich in nickel the Canadian Copper Company and Orford Refining Company merged to form the International Nickel Company (INCO) in 1902, which was based in New York. In 1916 ‘INCO Canada’ was incorporated in Copper Cliff, by which point it was providing 80% of the world’s nickel.

  While a US five cent piece was 75% copper, by 1922 all Canadian units were pure nickel. This declined over time and by 1999 they were 94.5% steel, 3.5% copper, and only 2% nickel plating. Overall demand seemed to drop over the decades, however recent technology has revitalized the demand. Nickel is used to produce stainless steel, electroplating and nickel-cadmium batteries. The rise of the electric car is also creating a renewed demand.

  How is this relevant to the story, you ask? Well, it’s set in Sudbury, Ontario. And it never hurts to know these things.

  PROLOGUE

  You don’t meet time travelers every day. Least of all in the Gatchell area.

  It was a typical spring day in Sudbury; the sweet relief of fresh air through long-closed windows was offset by the smell of thawing dog poop, and the cliché of ‘spring showers’ was grossly overridden by the onslaught of flooded basements from the excessive amount of melting snow. I was on some random errand for Mr. Linden, my boss, the purpose of which was quickly forgotten when I saw a man standing by my car.

  I slowed and assessed the man. Did he just happen to choose that place to stand? Or was it on purpose? He kept scanning the parking lot. It made me uneasy. I clutched my purse close and considered walking away. But it was broad daylight. The parking lot was relatively busy. I tried to convince myself I was overreacting, and continued on my path. Making a laundry list of mental notes, in case I had to describe him to a police sketch artist later. But with great calm and composure.

  The young man - who had short brown hair, equally brown eyes, a boyish red-ish hue to his skin which his stubble tried to hide, slightly arched shoulders, no discernable facial features, and a rather colourful jacket – continued his scan of the perimeter and stopped short when he saw me approach from about twenty feet away. My pace slowed as his face dropped. He looked like he had seen a ghost, however that aghast expression was slowly overtaken by an astonished smile.

  “Oh…my…god…”

  “I’m sorry, that’s my car,” I said quietly, and a little more quietly than intended. He was standing in front of the driver’s side door. But when he realized his infraction, he jumped away, as though repelled by some force field.

  “I’m sorry,” he blurted. Then, while not directed towards me, he continued, “…I can’t believe it…”

  “Can’t believe what?” I asked.

  “Do you know who you are?”

  “Sure. For the most part…”

  “You’re…”

  “I’m…?”

  “You’re…”

  “…trying to go back to work.”

  “You’re Billie. Elizabeth ‘Billie’ Turner.”

  Okay. That took away any bit of control I felt I had over the situation. My heart jumped. I had no idea who this guy was, but he knew both the name I was born with and the name I wish other people would have the decency to call me by.

  “Says who?” I asked, my voice cracking slightly. I started fishing for my keys in my purse.

  Despite my wariness he appeared far more awkward than I could have dreamed of. His hands went in and out of his pockets, his mouth moved to form several words that his breath could not produce, and his feet shuffled about whenever he wasn’t inserting them into his mouth.

  “I’ve always had such a crush on you…”

  “What?”

  “Ever since I was a kid.”

  “Who are you?”

  “I’m sorry, this isn’t going how I planned.”

  “So you’re saying there was a plan?”

  “You’re my favourite actress,” he blurted. “You always have been! Ever since I saw ‘The Studious Mouse’ when I was five!”

  Okay. I needed to process that. I did have an acting bug - something inserted into my brain by my mother when I was in the sixth grade. I carried on until more recently, but my crowning achievement was a string of plays at the community theater centre. I had never been in any movie, and furthermore this guy couldn’t have been any more than five years my junior.

  “I’m sorry, you clearly have me confused with…”

  “The Importance of Being Earnest,” he proclaimed, as though that would answer everything. Well, it didn’t. It did give him a little more credibility though. “It’s 1997 now, right?”

  I slowly nodded, gripping my keys, poking a few through my fingers in case I needed to use them as a weapon.

  “That means last year you played Cecily Cardew and got your first standing ovation, despite people saying it was a ‘controversial’ portrayal.”

  “You saw that?”

  He shook his head. “No. I wasn’t even born yet. But I read about it. I mean, let’s be honest; it was very progressive for its time, especially in this little town.”

  It was my turn to shake my head. “Who are you?”

  “I, uh…I’m not really supposed to say. I’m not really supposed to be talking to you. It’s against the rules, but…I mean…look at you. You’re standing right in front of me. This is amazing. You’re amazing.”

  Great. I have one shining moment on stage and meet my first fan, (a year later I might add), and I’m wearing old jeans and a t-shirt, and carrying a greasy box of engine parts under one arm.

  “Thanks,” I muttered. “I still have no idea what you’re talking about though.”

  “They needed a guinea pig, someone to test their device,” he stammered. “I agreed to do it as long as I co
uld come here and meet you. I guess they sent me back too far. You’re not famous yet, are you?”

  “Uh…no.”

  “Oh my god that’s amazing,” he gasped. “You have no idea who you are yet, do you?”

  “I mean…I thought I did…”

  “Can you sign this?” he asked, reaching into his coat pocket and pulling out a piece of paper. It was only then that I realized just how unusual his jacket was, like something out of a bad movie attempting to depict a future where everyone wore bright pastel colours. I just thought it was an odd fashion choice on his part. He held out a blank sheet and a pen. “I wanted to get you to sign a poster for ‘Alternative Medicine’, but they said it wasn’t allowed. That’s the movie where you broke out of the family-friendly market and into the more dramatic…I shouldn’t say anything else. Can you sign it? Please?”

  He still held the piece of paper out. His hands were actually shaking.

  “You want me to sign my name?”

  “You don’t have to sign your full name. Just ‘Billie’. It’s what you go by anyway.”

  “Then you’ll let me go on my way?”

  He nodded vigorously.

  Jesus what the hell was I doing? I set down the box, took the piece of paper, and signed my first name. I ended up getting dust and dirt from the box all over the rumpled but otherwise clean sheet.

  “Sorry,” I muttered.

  “No, no, this makes it all the more legit!”

  “So what year are you supposed to be from?”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  “Uh huh. And what’s your name?”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  “Right. Well, here you go.”

  He took the sheet back and eyed it as though I had just covered it in gold plating. “This is amazing, thank you!” He looked around as though he were being watched. Which is ironic, as I was wondering where the cameras were. I was certain I was being pranked. He looked at his watch. “I have to go. Thank you for this. You’ve made my day. My year. My life. They’ll never believe me.”

  “I’m sure they won’t.”

  “Keep acting, don’t give up. No matter how hard it is. You’re going to be huge one day, Billie. Don’t get discouraged, okay?”

  “Uh…sure.”

  He made a few erratic gestures, like he was going to hug me, thought better of it, attempted to shake my hand, thought better of it, then resigned to just smile and nod. He then ran off across the parking lot and disappeared around the corner into an alleyway behind the parts shop.

  I watched in disbelief, then picked up the box and was about to unlock my car when there was a sudden flash. I wasn’t the only one to see it; another man in overalls coming from the parts shop turned when he saw it. The flash came from the alleyway. It was quite significant, even in the light of day.

  Then it was quiet, save for the sound of water gurgling as it went down the storm drain.

  Well, that was interesting. An actress. I hadn’t given it much more thought at that point, to be honest. I mean, it was a big driver for me through high school and part way through college. But by this point, the only acting I did was pretend not to be disgusted by the subtle attempts at humour from the drivers and labourers at the company I worked at. To be honest, I had pretty much written acting off altogether.

  A few of my old friends had encouraged me to keep pursuing it. When I told them about my encounter with a ‘time-traveler,’ their reaction was too telling to maintain the façade. If only their acting was as good as his, I might have believed the whole thing.

  “Oh my god, that’s SO amazing,” Pat gasped.

  Pat never gasped.

  “This is a sign,” Chris insisted. “You have to get back into it!”

  When they realized I wasn’t buying it, they admitted they’d hired an actor to try to convince me to do what they couldn’t seem to. It seemed like a rather elaborate plan. They said it was done through something called ‘Inspiration Inc’. You know how you can get singing telegrams or clowns to embarrass people on their birthdays? Well apparently some enterprising young man had set up a company where he hired actors to portray ‘time travelers’ and meet people before they were famous, to encourage them to continue pursuing whatever craft they were losing their faith in. It was a kitschy idea, and while I was hardly the most outgoing person in the world, I knew I had to meet the man behind the concept. I had to find out what drove him to come up with such a concept, and furthermore determine what made him think such an idea was sustainable in this little corner of the earth. My friends, whom I had both thanked and admonished for their attempts at becoming my entourage, give me the proprietor’s business card, which proclaimed the owner to be one ‘Mr. Jacky Spry.’

  ***

  “I prefer ‘Jack,’ to be honest.”

  ‘Jack’ told me he was lucky I had chosen that day to visit his office; he typically spent most of his time at his day job.

  “Normally, my employees double as an answering service. But Mike is off sick today, and quite frankly, I needed a break.”

  Honestly, I don’t think I really took in any of that at the time. I was too busy getting lost in his eyes. Oh shut up; I know that’s a cliché. But every good cliché starts its life as a general truth. I am not one to go boy crazy. Never have been. But something about Jack caught me off guard. And not in the same way his time traveler did. It wasn’t down to his appearance, though there was little to complain about in that department, but rather in his sincerity. Trust me, you don’t go through life the way I have without noting a sincere lack of compassion and overall empathy in people, to the point where when it does rear its head you gather a bit of a sixth sense about it. Jack had it in spades – he didn’t look through me, he didn’t look at me, he just...looked. And listened. Yeah you wouldn’t understand, but don’t misunderstand either - I wasn’t completely malleable in his presence. I mean, he wore a suit, and most people don’t wear a suit unless they want to sell you something, so that had me put up a few defenses. Cults are formed by people with a certain amount of charm, after all. I had to snap myself out of it and give him the same amount of critical observation that I did his employee.

  “I had a visit from one of your people two days ago,” I said, bolstering my professional bravado. “I just wanted to ask you some questions about it.”

  “Sure,” he said.

  He offered me a seat across from his desk. He only sat when I sat. There were also no pictures of a wife or children on his desk. Oh shut up, Billie!

  “Can I ask you a question first?” he asked.

  I nodded.

  “Were you inspired?”

  I opened my mouth to speak but nothing came out. “Huh,” I muttered. I looked back up at him. “I mean, I never believed it. Not for a second.” Okay, maybe a half a second. “However…I walked away from the encounter thinking about getting back into it.” I looked at the wall. I looked at the ceiling. I looked back at him. “Oh my god you’re a master manipulator.”

  He laughed as he shook his head. “If I was out to manipulate someone I’d be hiring actors to gather people’s social insurance numbers.”

  “But why do it? It seems a bit…specific.”

  “You’d be surprised. We’ve had a few jobs so far, we’re a bit new, but we’ve encouraged people to get back into acting, singing…” He was counting off on his fingers. “…writing, gardening…”

  “Gardening?” I asked, an eyebrow raised.

  “A Sudbury green-thumb helped the city win the best public park award in 2010, which is the only reason the Queen decided to set up her retirement residence here in 2021. Or at least that’s what her great grandson came back to tell her when she felt like giving up after her husband died.”

  “Fascinating.”

  “Of course she didn’t believe it, but it did give her the push to continue on.”

  “Has anyone believed it so far?”

  He shrugged. “Hard to say. My actors normally leave before any
more can be said. I like to do a little follow-up with the people who hire us though, just to see if they were satisfied. I’m proud to say we’ve not pissed anyone off yet.”

  I smirked and nodded. “A good benchmark for a growing business.”

  “Absolutely.” He looked me up and down, then at some papers on his desk. “Elizabeth Turner?”

  Like a waif, my heart fluttered when he said my name. How utterly embarrassing, even if he couldn’t see it. “Yes.”

  He withdrew a scrap of paper from a file. It was crumpled, covered in black dust, and had the word ‘Billie’ signed on it. “With your permission I’d like to frame this and have it on my wall.”

  “For when I’m famous?” I asked wryly.

  “You don’t have to be famous for me to be proud of this,” he insisted. “I like to keep track of my successes.”

  “Well, we’ve established I’m not successful yet.”

  “Yes you are. You have been for quite some time, I’m sure. You’ve just never realized.”

  Even with my sincerity radar, I was taken aback. I wasn’t expecting him to look at me like that. No one ever looked at me like that. It was something I was thoroughly unfamiliar with. He looked at me as though I mattered. I’d embarrass myself if I explained how unusual that was for me. I scrambled to find some snarky comment - my typical defense mechanism when I felt out of my depth.

  “Oh, you’re good.”

  “Maybe this is unprofessional, but…I’d like to take this ‘Billie’ out sometime. Would that be…unprofessional?”

  “...very. And yes.”

  We can skip the rest of that conversation. I’m sure it would sound lame without the context of the moment. And the long history of baggage to defend it. I went to that office looking for insight into the mind of the man behind the business. I left it with the first serious relationship I ever had in my life. Seriously, I was twenty five, and never had more than a second date by that point. Dating had always been either confusing or disappointing. Then fate went and dropped this clichéd ‘tall, dark and handsome’ at me. It sent me reeling. I spent more time than I should have just trying to determine what I did to deserve it. Jack was driven, yet thoughtful. He worked at an investment firm by day, but in his own time he ran a side business out of a small (and let's be honest, dingy) office, working to make people feel valued and important. I worked at a desk in a septic pumping company. Jack had an MBA in finance. I had a liberal arts degree. He was comfortable in a suit and tie. I was comfortable in a t-shirt and jeans. We could not have been more different, yet after a few dates neither of us could imagine being with anyone else.