The Secret Life of Tom Bradbury
Chapter One: The Mechanics of Saving the World
It was May 4th, 1999, and Tom Bradbury was twenty-two years old
To see him pass by on his bicycle, with his bookbag slung across his back, and a flat plaid cap pulled down snug on his forehead, he looked perfectly ordinary and entirely forgettable.
Halfway through this third year as an engineering student at the University of Cambridge, Tom had exasperated his professors with his lackadaisical attitude towards his studies and his unyielding fondness for flirting with his female classmates. Of course, that in itself was neither new nor unusual, but what truly ruffled the tenured teacher’s fine feathers was the fact that Tom seemed to be a true, natural savant.
Tom would quietly sit and study the situation, whether it was a physical model or a theoretical problem that needed to be constructed or solved. Then, a small leather-bound notepad with a stubby pencil affixed by rubber bands would be removed from a shirt pocket, and his method would begin the same way he had been figuring things out since he was a child; he took every piece apart.
Early on, it had vexed his parents to no end that playtime for young Tom meant taking things apart, his preferred toys being household appliances. His mother would return home from a full day’s secretarial work, exhausted and worn thin, to find the vacuum disassembled in a neat line of parts and pieces across the living room floor. And alongside lay Tom, five years old, chin held in his palm, propped up by an elbow while drawing blueprints for a new design in crayon with the other.
Or the time Tom’s father found him in the garage at nine years old, black with grease from fingertips to elbows, and his 1940 Ariel W/NG 350 motorcycle, an original model, produced for and used in WWII, strewn in a wide arc of parts and pieces across the cement floor.
But his mother smiled when she sent door-to-door vacuum salesmen sheepishly on their way when her son’s redesigned vacuum decimated the sucking power of the flashy, expensive new models with a near-silent motor. And his father beamed with pride when his Ariel 350 matched speed and endurance to the Velocette Viper owned by his sister’s obnoxious husband.
As the boy grew, his parents, through events relayed by Tom’s football and fencing coaches, boxing instructor, and chess club chief, learned that their son’s skill set included profound situational awareness. Tom was simply ten steps ahead of his adversaries in a myriad of possible tangents. He could see trouble coming a mile away and work his way around it.
That was until the dreary English afternoon of May 4th, 1999, when Tom Bradbury’s life took an unexpected path, becoming the one enigma it would take him decades to solve.
The old powder blue 1968 Plymouth Valiant was parked along the street; its hood up and its driver underneath stood with legs wide apart, hands resting on the grill and peering at the engine convincingly without a clue as to the trouble.
Tom had just finished one of his part-time jobs, working the till at the local bookstore, and was on his way to his other, a bartender at the faculty favorite local watering hole, The Crib and Casket.
By nature, Tom was an empathetic and kind soul. He liked to help people when he could, and he simply loved solving problems. Glancing at his watch, he quickly calculated how long it would delay him to help the motorist and still be on time for work at the Pub.
“You came down the hill, and she stalled on you when you made the turn?” Tom called out as he approached the forlorn fellow tucked beneath the hood, his hand reaching tentatively, tugging at wires and tapping tubes.
Retreating from the defeated motor, the man turned with a half pitiful smile to look at Tom setting his book bag on the curb against the car’s tire.
“Yeah. That’s precisely what happened, how did you know? It seems to do that every once in a while. I’ve had it checked again and again. Yet the mechanics can never find anything wrong,” he answered.
“Did you ever notice what else was going on when it stalls out?” asked Tom while pointing up to the sky.
The man looked up at the gloomy, gray skies then furrowed his brow in recollection.
“It’s an oddity with this particular model and this particular engine,” remarked Tom, “and that particular distributor cap.” He pointed to the mechanism which he then quickly removed, turning it upside down to show the interior, slick with moisture.
“It can’t breathe. Rainy days and damp weather is the problem. Your engine slowly drowns. Do you have a rag or towels?” asked Tom.
The man stepped around to the rear of the car and opened the boot while Tom removed the cap’s contact points. A random glance through the gap of the hood and windshield allowed Tom to see a broad-shouldered man in his mid to late twenties round the corner, walking casually towards them. It was his shoes that set off warning bells for Tom.
Stepping out from the raised hood and towards the curb, Tom made a quick, measured glance of the man. He didn’t fit the neighborhood. Close but not quite. He was trying too hard to look like a student, a heavy bomber jacket over a Cambridge letter sweater, but betrayed by the sparkling white sneakers. Tom casually ducked back under the hood, spinning loose the butterfly screw and removing the plate-sized carburetor/air filter cap. Tom saw the second set of legs in his periphery with a second set of gleaming white sneakers crossing the road from across the street. Tom couldn’t tell if this was a setup for a mugging or something else, but he was sure it was an ambush. His index finger slipped in the loop of the dipstick, Tom stepped back, now armed with a foil and a shield.
The first assailant, the big lad, made two quick strides towards the raised lid of the trunk; swift and harshly, he swung it down, crashing the driver across the head, dropping him unconscious half into the cavity, half slumped to the ground. Goon #2 was making a rush at Tom, while goon #1 flanked the passenger side towards him. Tom lunged at goon #1, swinging the metal disk and catching him in the teeth, shards of enamel flying out of his mouth; he recoiled, hands clutching his face. Then, stepping away from the hood, Tom lashed out with his makeshift sabre, slashing at the face of goon #2 who immediately raised his hands defensively from the cutting whips of the dipstick. Tom jutted, sliced, and whipped at him viciously, drawing blood and cries of agony. Unrelenting, he struck at his ears, head, neck, and torso.
Feeling the footsteps of goon #1 closing on his rear, Tom turned and bull-rushed, propelling his shoulder into the goon’s chest and crushing him into the car. Tom shoved him into the open motor, knocking out the rod holding up the hood, and slammed the heavy steel door repeatedly onto his body. Kicking his legs apart, Tom thrust his kneecap into the man’s groin with ferocious violence.
Turning his attention to goon #2, Tom hurled the metal disc at him, and in the goon’s dodge, Tom leaped into him, slashing the dipstick viciously across his hands and face sending the thug pedalling backward against the car. Having recovered his senses, the driver stepped out from behind the trunk and walloped the attacker across the head with a tire iron, dropping him unconscious and bleeding to the street.
“We gotta get the fuck out of here, now!” exclaimed the driver, “those two are just the first strike. There’s more on the way. Can we get it running yet?”
“Move them out of the way and get in,” replied a panting and wide-eyed Tom Bradbury.
Rapidly replacing the car parts used as weapons, then tearing a piece of shirt from goon#1, Tom rubbed the distributor cap dry, then wrapped the cloth into a ring as a makeshift weatherproofing strip and reattached the cap.
“Give it a try!” yelled Tom to the driver.
The engine gurgled, shook, shuddered but caught and roared to life. Retrieving his bag, Tom opened the passenger side door and leaned in, speaking to the driver, “You’d better skedaddle mate! I’m ducking down the alley and away from you!”
“Bad idea,” replied the driver, “they weren’t after me. They came for you, and you won’t make it to the Pub before a van rolls up with a half dozen more to finish the job. Think you can handle six pros on your own? You’d better get in.”
Confused and unable to solve the question of why he’d be a target, Tom assessed his options then jumped in the car. Tires screeching, the pair fled.
“What is all this?” asked Tom.
“That,” answered the man behind the wheel, “was conscription by force.”
Tom studied the driver now. His shirt had been torn at the shoulder, revealing a tattoo. Military branding of some sort though he couldn’t readily place it.
“Then what’s this?” Tom asked the man.
The driver turned to Tom impassively and replied, “Recruitment.”
Over the following two days, serious-looking men in plain-looking suits explained to Tom that his unique and proficient skillset was needed by Queen and Country. Through the debriefing, Tom learned about the sinister workings of a secret organization intent on the disassembling and destruction of western democracies and capitalist markets, the nefarious group was stripping gears in the modern machinery of free societies, and they wouldn’t stop until the engine was destroyed. This side of the battle required a mechanic to keep it from breaking down. Tom, in his youthful confidence and naiveté, volunteered his service before the meetings were concluded.
A day later, Tom Bradbury — student, son, the calm, easy-going, and mild-natured young man — disappeared. Stating a need to travel to the far corners of the world, he withdrew from school and made a few short phone calls to his parents, friends, and employers to explain that his hiatus would be immediate and longstanding.
It would be nearly two decades before Tom was able to rebuild the mechanism that allowed him to walk away, freely under his own name and volition.
Life on the old farm was a simple one but not uncomplicated. Living without the niceties of modern life, Tom had found his corner and kept the rest of the mad world at bay. It was clean living.
He went to bed each night weary from a long day’s work but with a clear conscience. He exchanged leading capable men into danger for shepherding stubborn sheep into fields. He traded hands covered in blood to fingernails caked with dirt. Here, in a lost corner of France, a place almost entirely untouched by technology and greed, Tom carved out a meagre but soul-satisfying existence, and he found as much peace as he’d ever be allowed.
Every blade of grass, every gnarled branch, and each old stone was a part of him now. As he passed through the gate onto his own land, he knew someone uninvited had crossed his boundary. Nothing was visibly changed, but everything whispered, “Intruder,” to his highly tuned senses.
His home on the farmland was an old, defunct watermill that had a poorly conceived addition tacked on. Ten paces to the right of the double-wide doors of the main entryway sat the partly camouflaged original door to the mill. It was there on its flat river rock steps that Tom found proof of a visitor.
Tom stood over the entrance, staring down at a square box wrapped in plain brown paper. No markings. No names. No address. He knew what was inside. The simple brown string tied into a loop with 8 curled legs hanging below removed any doubt.
The Octopus was calling him back.
Chapter 2. An Oath to Marigold and the Runes of Man
Chapter 3. Cavalry of Necessary Chaos.
Chapter 4. The Green Light of Sardinia
Chapter 5. Fracturing the Frozen Pond
Chapter 6. Conclusion. The Fruits of Faith
If you have the means and desire to help support my writing, you can do so here. Everyone needs helps at one time or another and I sincerely appreciate any that comes my way. Click on the link here if you want to buy me a cup of coffee! Thanks in advance!
If you aren’t a Medium member but enjoy my work, or have your own stories to tell, you can bump up to full membership for only $5 and have access to the complete library of writers and their stories, articles, and more! I receive a small percentage of any new memberships through this link.
Come say Hi, on Twitter
Freelance Writer for Hire. Email me [email protected]
