Williams' Wonder Wax

By Colin Litten-Brown

Williams Wax floor polish is good, very good, so good in fact that nobody else can quite work out how he does it, especially as the formula resists all known forms of analysis. Old Mr Williams is equally as mysterious, ancient and reclusive, living entirely within the confines of his factory in England. Try as they might, the competition cannot glean the secret of Williams formula, even though they will and do stop at nothing to steal it.

Out of work and single, Matthew Frosts world has collapsed but just as he reaches the bottom of the pit of despair, he succeeds in getting a job at Williams Wax. Little does he know that this is the start of an incredible journey and that his appointment is not all that it seems. Even as he starts his new job, a strange signal arrives on Earth from the depths of space, attracting the attention of a shadowy secret agency in America and causing them to drag Jim Hauser, one of their oldest operatives out of retirement.

What is the connection between the signal from space and the amazing truth behind Williams and his Wonder Wax? Can Matt Frost and Jim Hauser unravel the mystery in time to save the planet?

Colin Litten-Browns latest book, Williams Wonder Wax, is a science-fiction thriller set in the strange world of household product development and drawing from his years of personal experience inventing floor polishes, carpet shampoos and air fresheners.

For more information visit www.colinlittenbrown.com.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Sep 7, 2010
• ISBN: 9781452089041

Colin Litten-Brown

Colin Litten-Brown has misspent the last twenty-six years of his career developing household and personal care products. He has the following books published: The Gates of Atopia, Williams’ Wonder Wax, The Warriors of Atopia, The Legacy Conspiracy, and The Legend of the Hyper-Worm. The Cult of the Hyper-Worm is his latest work. He still develops household and personal care products mainly to keep the house tidy! Colin lives in Kent, England, with his wife, Jennie, and his three children, Mia, Josh, and Iona.

Book preview

WILLIAMS’ WONDER WAX

COLIN LITTEN-BROWN

missing image file

AuthorHouse™ UK Ltd.

500 Avebury Boulevard

Central Milton Keynes, MK9 2BE

www.authorhouse.co.uk

Phone: [phone]

© 2010 Colin Litten-Brown. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 9/2/2010

ISBN: 978-1-4520-4585-6 (sc)

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations , and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

This book is printed on acid-free paper.

Contents

INTRODUCTION

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

THE PROLOGUE…

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

INTRODUCTION

Before becoming a writer I spent twenty years developing household products, air fresheners, carpet shampoos and the like. This was not a conscious decision at the time, although I had always as a child dreamed of being a scientist and working in a job that required wearing a lab coat! To spin time back a few decades, I was, when I was young, a promising student, excelling both at English and maths but began more and more to have run-ins with my teachers largely on the subject of homework, which I saw as pointless and unchallenging. Sadly this was back in the days where I was still able to be given a smack by way of explaining the error of my ways. It was at the tender age of around ten or eleven that I thus took to daydreaming and speculating about the nature of the universe.

As my school career progressed my academic prowess waned in favour of my own developing private universe in which all sorts of fabulous things occurred. Throughout this, I achieved just enough to get to the next academic level, all the time specialising as far as possible in the sciences in which my interests still lay. Progressing to University was always an assumption though my first wake-up call came when my A-level grades were far below the entry requirements for medical school on which I had my sights targeted. A brief morning of panic and the stressful process of going through clearing earned me a place at Royal Holloway and Bedford New College in the chemistry department. The decision between chemistry and biology had quite literally been on the flip of a coin, the casual way I seem to have made a number of career-based decisions in my life!

I will be honest, I struggled at University. The course did not grip my interest, not particularly because it was dull but mostly as I was going through some deep personal issues at the time, thanks to the recent divorce of my parents and a growing sense of isolation and loneliness. A failed relationship at the start of the first year went no way towards helping this situation. I scraped through the first year with just enough points to progress and the second year, while slightly better, had me regarding my chosen career with some despair.

The choice to take an optional industrial placement year was another casual one, though somewhat based on the logic that as an average student I would be well-placed to increase my chances of employment with a year’s worth of experience. Confident that I would find something, I sent off application forms and waited. Most companies did not even offer me the consolation of a rejection form, simply filing my application in the nearest bin. I had one interview, at BP, which I utterly failed to shine at. Thus it was that my continuation into the third year seemed certain and imminent until a last-minute post came up at the research and development laboratories of Johnson Wax (as they were called back then), coincidentally in Egham just down the road from the University.

I went along and my first impression was not good. Having been used to gleaming laboratories and heaps of incredibly sophisticated apparatus, the facilities at Johnson Wax seemed primitive and dull. I said as much to my tutor who basically gave me what was probably the most important dressing down speech I have ever had, pointing out that it was that or nothing and she did not take kindly to my criticism. More out of embarrassment than desire, when I was offered the job I accepted it.

It was only afterwards that I discovered that my new boss, Dick Avery, had mainly employed me as at school I had, with a friend of mine, built a full-sized Dalek. Dick had been stuck on a business trip so a colleague of his, Olly Brown had stepped into the interview. His report back to Dick went along the lines of You will like him, he builds Daleks!

I never looked back. Within a couple of days my eyes were opened to the surprising and fascinating world of product development. Never again could I walk down the supermarket shelves without staring at the various bottles and boxes and wondering about the process by which they had been developed. It was an environment in which my creativity was allowed to thrive and develop. Added to this, Dick introduced me to the writings of Tom Holt, that incredible comic fantasy writer and it was from here that I discovered Terry Pratchett. I had long been a fan of Douglas Adams so took to these like a lout to lager.

It was thanks to this experience that the course of my personal destiny was set but twenty years on I still remember those industrial placement years with fond memories. Had it not been for Dick I would never have gained an upper second degree, never been offered the full-time job at Johnson Wax, never lived in the US, never got my Ph.D. and so on and so on. Dick set the ball rolling that others would kick along the way later in life.

There has not, to my knowledge, been a series of books set in the strange world of product development and it was always my intention to fill this vacuum. This is the first but hopefully not the last that will draw on those strange incidents that inevitably occur in such an environment but ultimately this one, for me, will always reflect where it all started.

Some of the things you will read about actually exist and some of the incidents are true. Which ones they are I will leave you to guess! I hope you enjoy it.

Colin Litten-Brown

June 2010

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

This book is dedicated to Dick Avery without whom none of this would have ever happened!

I would also like to thank Hilary Sturgeon and Fiona Harding for once again proof-reading and critiquing the book, even though it isn’t the sort of thing they would normally read. Your politeness is appreciated!

Above all, this book is for my wife Jennie for also adding her comments and for her continuing love and support without which I would be nothing.

THE PROLOGUE…

Despite the hour, the golden rays of the sun still shone through the old windows high in the Victorian brickwork, plating the stainless steel vats and mixing vessels in hues of copper and gold. Motes of dust sparkled in the air, gently settling over the miles of pipes and cables that snaked through the factory. All was still as it usually was at this time of day. The workers were off for their evening break down in the brightly lit cafeteria, those that were not milling around outside for a quick fag, that is. The only sound came from the hum of the electric motors that gently stirred the forty tonnes of floor polish in mixing vessel number one and the quite whoosh of water purging the feed pipes clean for the next batch.

Old Mr Williams stood on the gantry watching the well-oiled machine of his production facility as it dutifully went about its business. At the far end of the building, hoppers were full to the brim with plastic bottles and overcaps, poised to supply the filling machinery that lurked, idle and quiet in the gloom. Further still but hidden from view, the conveyor system would take the filled bottles to the robot packers who would assemble and fill the boxes, stack the pallets and sort everything for shipment. That, however, would come later and for now all was still and quiet at that end of the production line.

It was a far cry from the manual assembly line he had bought all those years ago and the cavernous hall still echoed with the laughs and shouts of those long-dead men and women. He smiled gently at the memory; they were easier and more innocent times but sadly little more than a set of sepia photographs that lined the walls of the reception lobby now.

He saw movement in the control shack, which indicated that Jack, the sole worker still in the building was checking the monitor screens to ensure that everything was operating normally. From that little room he could control every pump, mixer, valve and machine in the plant, shutting the whole lot down at the press of a button if needed. Jack peered through the window up at the walkway on which his employer stood and waved, giving the thumbs-up signal that all was well. Mr Williams nodded then climbed the final set of metal steps to his private domain.

The caged room stood in the very rafters of the old red-brick building, commanding a fantastic birds-eye view of the whole operation as well as allowing close examination of the impressively decorated ironwork arches that supported the roof. He thought back to the huge restoration project he had undertaken, transforming the derelict mill into the state-of-the-art facility it now was. It pleased him even now to see the building in its former glory rather than the fate that had otherwise awaited it. There were plenty enough soulless housing estates in the area, it would have been criminal for this to become yet another.

Still swollen with pride, he fumbled in the battered leather bag that always hung over his shoulder and withdrew the large iron key. The cage itself had once been part of the basement storage that had long-since been removed to make way for the boiler and other essential services but like the rest of the building it had been too well-wrought to simply scrap so he had made it his own and ordered the entire structure to be re-assembled as his private mixing room.

With a satisfying snick, the lock sprang open and he pulled the barred door open, pleased that it swung on well-oiled hinges without a sound. Inside, there stood a large oak bench on which stood an impressive brass two-pan beam balance, the set of weights gleaming in their open wooden box. Mr Williams liked to do things the old-fashioned way.

The cage was filled with several barrels and smaller drums of raw materials, each labelled with the modern safety labels that the torturous health and safety regulations now required. He sighed, remembering when things would come in oak barrels or Hessian sacks. A large empty blue plastic barrel stood by one wall, already hooked up to a winch mechanism. Behind it, the top of mixing vessel number one gaped open, ready to receive the dose of secret ingredient that he was about to mix.

This was the key to what people had nicknamed his Wonder Wax but which actually traded under the less-auspicious name of Williams’ Multi-Surface Hard Floor Polish. He had never gone in for fancy brand names like his competitors, relying on simple descriptive titles that would let his customers know exactly what it was they were buying. It had always been his philosophy to let his products speak for themselves and he didn’t even make a big thing on the label about his secret formula, even though he knew there were many unscrupulous people out there that would go to any length to understand it.

If only they knew…. The thought hung in his mind for a moment as he peered around, making sure there was nothing untoward in the area. Bert Baker was the only other person allowed up here and then only to replenish the raw materials, tidy up and do any maintenance required. He would have to get the key from Mr Williams who would always accompany him as he attended his duties. That way, the room was never left unattended but you could not be too careful.

Satisfied that all was well, the old man reached for the first ingredient.

Deep in the shadows of the pipes sprouting from the top of the huge mixing vessel, a man smiled as he pressed the zoom control on the video camera he was holding in towards the balance. From his vantage point he had a clear view of every action the old man took.

That’s it, he thought, Show me how you do it. He was being paid a huge sum of money to get the formula so very carefully focused the camera first onto the label of the container and then onto the stack of weights on the balance. To be safe, he also had a digital voice recorder clipped to his collar and whispered everything he saw.

Calcium montmorillonite, alternative name Fuller’s Earth, ten kilos.

He watched as Mr Williams carefully took the beige powder and dropped it into the empty barrel before reaching for the second drum.

Graphite powder…. one kilo. He wished the old duffer would work faster.

Mr Williams pottered around, humming to himself quietly as he worked. He peered into the small pot of copper sulphate before weighing out the five hundred grams required. He would have to make a note to Bert to replenish his supply before the next batch. Hanging from the wall was a wooden clipboard with a request list. Hanging from a string was a stub of pencil and he used it to write copper sulphate on the form, just in case he forgot to mention it.

Moving back to the bench he weighed out a further two hundred grams of the bright blue crystals which he placed in a clear plastic bag and hid in his leather satchel.

Sneaky bastard! the hidden man hissed. As he watched, more ingredients were added and in one or two cases, extra portions were added to the discard pile in his bag.

Others before him had painstakingly trawled through purchase orders, surreptitiously observed deliveries of raw materials and, in a number of other ways, put together a clear picture of the ordering habits of Mr Williams’ company. From this they had deduced those raw materials that made up his secret formula and the quantities in which they were ordered. From that, a formula had been worked out. The only problem was, when chemists secretly put the formula together in the proportions suggested by this industrial espionage, the resultant polish was lumpy and dull. There had to be more to it than that but the real product resisted all attempts at chemical analysis, stubbornly refusing to divulge its secrets.

His heart was beating faster now and he struggled to keep the camera steady. What Mr Williams did with the discarded raw materials was anybody’s guess but it did mean he was wise to the possibility of someone deducing his secret in the manner that had already been attempted.

Not quite as daft as you look. The spy smiled arrogantly, knowing he was on the verge of achieving his goal. Already, the composition of the barrel was very different to the formula he had memorised before embarking on the mission.

The next material selected was polyvinyl alcohol, three hundred grams of which went straight into the satchel and none at all into the blue barrel.

Definitely not stupid! The more he watched, the more he appreciated the care with which Mr Williams had managed to protect his secret for all these years.

With all the ingredients added, the old man stood by the barrel and upended a tiny glass vial, pouring the contents into the mixture. The silvery powder, no more than a fraction of a gram, glinted in the light as it rained down. Smiling, Mr Williams picked up a large plastic mixing rod and gave the contents of the barrel a quick stir before stepping back and giving a satisfied nod.

The spy was panicking now. Where had the vial come from? What was inside it? The moment had passed in an instant, like a magician pulling the correct card from an unexpected pocket.

Mr Williams strode from the cage, stepping over to the open mixing vat to peer at the swirling beige liquid inside. The familiar smells of wax, styrene monomer and ammonia drifted up. By choice he would have used different compounds but there were certain things that were expected in the market. The formula itself had nothing to do with the usual polymers and resins that his competitors used and the wax emulsions were all derived from sustainable and Fair Trade sources. The chemical smell was added later to fool the consumers who were indoctrinated by years of product use to expect a certain smell. The fragrance added to the product, itself rather artificial in his opinion, merely served to accentuate the chemical smell instead of its desired affect of masking it.

In the shadows inches away from the old man, the spy stood silently, daring not to breathe in case he was heard. He had quickly snapped the camera closed so that the faint glow from the screen would not give him away but was desperate to rewind the video to see what he had missed. Any moment now the old man would activate the winch, drop the mixture into the vat and then signal the workers to return. His opportunity would be gone.

Mr Williams glanced at the old watch on his wrist and sighed. It was time to wrap things up. Reluctant to let go of the peace and quiet he so loved in the factory, he turned back to the barrel and peered inside.

Hands shaking, the spy flipped the camera open again and quickly played the image backwards to the moment when the vial had appeared. In panic he watched as the vial seemingly appeared in Mr Williams hand from nowhere. He ran the film further back but it was clear that it had not been in his hand before and there was no sign of it on the bench.

Shit. He hissed and then SHIT! as the camera slipped from his grasp and clattered noisily to the metal walkway.

Mr Williams’ head snapped up at the sound and he stared in alarm as the large man emerged from his hiding place.

What is the meaning of this, who are you? Despite his small frame, the old man’s voice was strong and sharp.

The spy moved forward slowly, covering the door to the cage and trapping Mr Williams inside. The old man stepped back instinctively, sensing the menace in the intruder’s stance.

We both know what I want. He pointed towards the barrel. The contents of that vial you added at the end and the amount, if you would be so kind.

Vial? Mr Williams frowned. What vial, I don’t know what you are talking about.

A deep scowl crossed the spy’s face. This situation was not panning out the way he had wanted but he had been told to get the formula by whatever means. He had hoped to get in and out undetected but that was not going to happen now.

Think very carefully, old man. He threw Mr Williams an evil look. We are alone up here, thanks to your security measures and that bloke in the control room cannot see us up here. If you want to come out of this alive, you will give me what I want.

I cannot! Mr Williams’ voice was softer now. Please, you don’t know what you are asking. I beg you, don’t do this.

I see. The spy snorted. In that case, we will start by taking a look in that bag of yours. In a flash, he reached out and grabbed the satchel.

Please don’t! the old man pleaded, desperately, I cannot stop it!

The spy frowned; this was not what he had expected Mr Williams to say. He then realised that the old man’s wild stare was not fixed at him but at something just behind him, something that was beginning to make a rustling sound.

Slowly, the younger man turned his head, his own eyes widening in panic as he beheld what stood behind him, if stood was the best word for the way the thing lurked.

Oh no! Mr Williams whimpered, quietly. I did warn you.

Releasing his grip on the bag, the spy drew breath to scream but it was cut off as the hulking thing attacked.

Oh dear…. The old man buried his face in his hands; not wanting to witness what happened next, though his ears captured it all. After a few seconds, the wet scrunching sound was replaced by a dry swishing, like sand being poured over a corrugated iron roof. Slowly, all sounds subsided and he was left again with the gentle purr of the electric mixer. He peered through his fingers, afraid at what he was going to see.

Of the spy and his camera there was no sign. Everything in the room was as he had left it but…no. As he peered around he realised there were more barrels of raw materials than there had been moments before. He peered at the label on one of the new drums and saw that it contained water. Other containers dotted around had carbon, calcium and various chlorides and oxides of sodium and potassium. He picked up one small pot and read the label Copper sulphate.

Oh dear. He said again, miserably. At least there would not be a body to dispose of. He sat the pot gently back down on the bench and retrieved the clipboard from the wall, using the rubber end of the pencil to erase the note he had written.

There was only one thing this could mean. He had long suspected that someone was actively trying to deduce his secret but this merely confirmed it and the chances were very good that the man had been helped from the inside. That it was happening now of all times could not be a coincidence. Not for the first time, he felt very alone.

He glanced up at the blue barrel again and realised that he was behind schedule. Not wanting to arouse suspicion or concern from his workers, he took hold of the control for the electric winch and pressed the start button.

Running through an automatic cycle, the winch slowly lifted the barrel, the side of the cage opening to allow it through, as it was draw over the opening in the mixing vessel. The barrel tipped up, causing its contents to flow as silvery rain into the liquid below. Normally this would have filled his heart with joy but not today. There was change in the air and it scared him. The signs had been there for a while but he had for too long buried his head in the sand, hoping in vain that his troubles would simply go away.

The barrel returned to its place in the cage with a hollow thud. He forced himself to check the area carefully to make sure there was nothing that could give him away or would indicate the presence of the poor unfortunate man. Sighing one last time, he pushed the door shut and locked the cage, knowing it would never be quite the same up there after today. He leaned over the balcony and signalled to Jack that he could let the workers back in. Jack waved back and in the distance, a bell sounded the end of tea break.

As the workers flowed back into the factory, Mr Williams took the walkway that led to the office suite and the sanctuary of his private rooms. On the way, the solution became clear to him. He needed help from someone on the outside; someone he could trust and he had the very person in mind. If his suspicions were true, it would be the only way to resolve this once and for all. He felt as if history were turning full-circle.

He took a detour down into the main office suite, quiet and still now as it was well after office hours. Mr Williams picked up a pad of Post-it notes from a random desk on the way, scribbling a note as he went. Finally, he found himself outside the door of the human resource manager and gently peeled the note from the pad, slapping it to the door so that it stuck in obvious sight. Now all he could do was wait until morning. He peered through the window at the gloom of dusk outside. It was going to be a clear night which was fortunate. There would be time for a quick bite to eat, check in on Rebecca and then he would ascend the tower to his observatory to do what he should have done weeks ago.

CHAPTER 1

The Lakeview Seniors Home in Racine, Wisconsin, was not a happy place. For one resident in particular, it was hell on Earth! Jim Houser sat on the veranda overlooking the beach. In the distance he could see the white tower of Wind Point lighthouse and hear the thwack of balls as executives from the nearby household product company engaged in their early afternoon round of golf on the course next door. Jim had always hated golf so held no jealousy there but it was a fine July day and he yearned to be out on the lake, sailing or fishing or anything but sitting here with the dribbling idiots that Lakeview seemed to be populated by.

Jim looked at the large forces-issue watch that hung on his scrawny wrist. It was still late morning and that horrible point between the drab, greasy breakfast they always served and the barely-edible lunch to come. He craved for a good juicy steak or peppered sea bass in one of the many fine restaurants in nearby Milwaukee or Chicago but the best he would get now was the monthly visit to Krueger’s Rib Shack down on highway 20.

As he approached his ninetieth birthday, which he was sure would go as un-remarked as all his previous birthdays, he found himself reflecting at the sheer anti-climax the latter years of his life were becoming. What was worse was the fact that he had actively chosen this place as the best location to be. Somehow that did not seem to be such a great idea anymore.

He stared around the lawn where some of the other residents sat. Lauren knitted furiously as she always did, her mind forever lost in her own private universe of wool. Nobody had yet ascertained what it was she was knitting or for whom, given that she had no family or friends, but whatever it was flowed across the table and onto the grass below in waves of pink and orange.

Dollar Dave rocked back and forth, chatting to nobody in particular, waving the dollar bill he always had clenched in his hand. Dave had once worked for one of the big corporations in town and had been a real hotshot in his time but, like Lauren, his grasp of reality was