The Red Men by Matthew De Abaitua Read Free Book Online

the subscriber. ‘It’s not got my nature.’
    ‘How do you know?’
    ‘I know my own mind.’
    ‘Do you?’
    ‘Of course.’
    ‘Does it make sense?’
    ‘Yes. I make sense. I’m not that complicated.’
    ‘But underneath your simple exterior you seethe with complexity. Maybe you are suppressing your entire nature.’
    ‘I don’t understand.’
    ‘I wager that the versions of yourself which you are currently presenting to me – the complaining man, the disgruntled consumer – are less representative of the real you than
your red man.’
    ‘This is customer service, isn’t it?’
    ‘We see it a lot. People getting by on five per cent of their personality because they do not have the opportunity to express the other ninety-five per cent. Then we simulate the whole
mind. Suddenly all that repressed nature manifests itself in the red man. The poor diminished souls don’t recognize themselves. I think that’s what is going on here. Just let me check
our mindometer.’ This was a cue for Florence to hold up her drawing of a cabbage.
    Raymond continued with a laugh in his voice. ‘The mindometer is showing that there are alien natures within you, sir. Not just one, but two, but three, but four, but five hanging out in
what you have come to regard as the inviolable sanctuary of yourself.’
    ‘I want to speak to your manager, you little prick.’
    ‘I can’t transfer you until we are certain that you are who you think you are. Otherwise, who would I say is calling?’
    ‘I don’t think much of your customer service.’
    ‘That is because you don’t understand the nature of the customer or the service. I recommend you go back and read the manual and then perhaps Thomas De Quincey’s theory on the
palimpsest of the human brain and if you are still upset then we will take this complaint further. For now, let us agree not to speak of it again.’
    Raymond was taking a risk with this attitude. I wanted to tell him to turn the volume down, to be stealthy and discreet in extracting what he wanted from the job.
    Then one ill-starred day, Florence took the call that brought about a terrible change in all our lives. Raymond was already in a foul mood having been humiliated by the commute. A small man, he
was condemned to the guts of the crowd on the underground train, not daring to inhale through the nose. The train stopped at a busy station, the doors opened, and the bigger passengers on the
platform began pulling the weak and the slow from the train to make room for themselves. Meaty, yeoman’s hands grabbed his upper arm and in one motion yanked him out of the crowd and threw
him off the train. He didn’t even see his attacker. The altercation was strangely silent; most commuters were wearing headphones so there was no point in protesting. He staggered humiliated
out of the train station, the line of his suit crumpled. I was on my way back from another meeting when Raymond stopped me in the corridor and related this tale to me.
    ‘I think the CBI and London Transport are colluding,’ he added. ‘By the time you get to work, your spirit is broken.’ A furious fire was burning in his mind. When he said
‘your spirit in broken’ he emphasized the ‘your’, accusing me of complicity. As if it was all my fault.
    When Florence took the call that was to change everything, Raymond’s anger had infected her too. The atmosphere in the paddock was tense, smouldering in anticipation of an outburst. From
my office up on the balcony, I heard every word. The call came from Alex Drown. She sounded solicitous and considerate, which was unusual for a senior member of Monad’s management. She must
have wanted something.
    ‘Who am I speaking to?’
    ‘Florence Murray.’
    ‘I was wondering if you could help me, Florence.’
    Sullen and ungenerous, Florence rolled her eyes.
    ‘Could you look into something for me? I know it’s an unusual request but I have been thinking about it, and it could turn out to