by Richard Gadd
The Other Richard – for a beautiful poster.
The Auld Shillelagh FC – for all the banging headers.
Duncan Doherty-Craig, Gayna Williams and all the staff at Survivors
Manchester – for the love and phone calls.
All the friends in my life – for helping me through the darkest of times. You know who you are and I will never forget it.
The Metropolitan Police – for sweet fuck-all.
Richard Gadd
Baby Reindeer
For Maimuna
Characters
Gadd, early to late twenties, male, Scottish
Martha, mid-forties to early fifties, female, Northern Irish
Teri, early thirties, transgender female, Mediterranean
Darren, mid-twenties, male, Scottish
Policeman, forties, male, English
Beattie, sixties, female, English
Customer, forties, male, English
Bartenders, periphery characters, any age, gender, or race
Notes
Baby Reindeer is a one-man play. All the characters should be inhabited by Gadd with the exception of voiceovers.
The Policeman should be a disembodied voice, either pre-recorded or off-stage.
Martha’s voicemails should be recorded by an actor and made to sound as authentic as possible.
The interviews should similarly be made to sound as authentic as possible.
Voicemails, emails and any italicised parts should be pre-recorded and/or projected within the space.
The sound should be overwhelming, tense and uncomfortable.
Additional footage, music and projection can be used that is not otherwise specified in the text.
An ellipsis . . . between the lines indicates a new thought or change of direction.
A dash – indicates that somebody’s speech has been interrupted, sometimes by themselves.
Baby Reindeer is based on a true story and is a piece of autobiographical writing spanning a number of years in the life of Richard Gadd, the writer. Certain details have been changed to protect the identities of those involved.
Contents
Act One
Scene One
Scene Two
Scene Three
Scene Four
Scene Five
Scene Six
Scene Seven
Scene Eight
Scene Nine
Act Two
Scene One
Scene Two
Scene Three
Scene Four
Scene Five
Scene Six
Scene Seven
Scene Eight
Scene Nine
Scene Ten
Scene Eleven
Act Three
Scene One
Scene Two
Scene Three
Scene Four
Act One
Scene One
EE Welcome to your EE voicemail. Your EE voicemail is full. This means if someone calls you they’ll not be able to leave you a message. To free up some space, you can delete some of your messages once you’ve listened to them. You have fifty new messages.
. . .
Martha Voicemail 07840 475173 – This is a personal call, not work stuff –
. . .
Martha Voicemail 07840 475173 – One thing else I was going to say is I have eighteen phones –
. . .
Martha Voicemail 07840 –
. . .
Martha Voicemail That is an Aids-ridden little tart with lips that could suck ten men – fucking hate her!
. . .
Martha Voicemail You’ve got psychiatric problems, darling, and they’re all down to one thing. Drugs. Yeah? And booze. Yeah? And probably unprotected sex. Yeah? And whatnot.
. . .
Martha Voicemail 07840 475173 – you give that number out to anyone and I’ll injunct –
. . .
Martha Voicemail 07840 475173 –
. . .
Martha Voicemail How dare you say those things to me and take them away – like that. You don’t say those things to me and then take them away. Okay? Yeah?
. . .
Martha Voicemail You’ve got a great jaw-line – a lovely smile. You know, I’m not going to skirt around it. I find you very attractive.
. . .
Martha Voicemail And now I’ve got the police on my case, this way and that, and you could have just kept your fucking mouth, shut –
. . .
Martha Voicemail And he’s comes in wearing one of those Noddy hats, and he bounded in all, ‘What’s this hubbub, what’s this hubbub?’ – with this big fucking Noddy hat on –
. . .
Martha Voicemail *Laugh.*
. . .
EE Next new message, received Monday 12 September at 9.58 a.m.
. . .
Martha Voicemail I’m fucking furious with you, Richard, I’m fucking furious. But I don’t know why I’m surprised. You come from a long line of liars. Like – your mum. Found out all about her. Problems with the council perchance? And your father? Some crackpot that nobody gets on with? You’re a mess, Richard Gadd. All of you. I know all about you and your little lives and I know a lot worse so keep your traps shut. Yeah? You’re all on your final warning. I fucking mean it this time.
Scene Two
Gadd The emails would arrive up to eighty times a day. They would cover every aspect of her life. From her battles with Labour, her hatred for London and the English, where she got her haircut, and what she had for lunch.
. . .
Gadd She would leap from sentence to sentence, each thought bounding onto the next, never pausing, never hesitating to unburden her mind – from complimenting me on my chest, or my ass, my deep voice, my manly hands – to vitriol and spite about there being too many Muslims on television – my flawed comedy shows – the fact I’m ugly, stupid, nefarious.
. . .
Gadd Sometimes she told me she loved me.
. . .
Gadd She wrote without editing herself – driving forward like a burst dam, ignoring typos and hitting enter every time a new thought came to her. It was wild, unchained brilliance. Pure poetry leaking onto the screen.
. . .
Gadd I felt many things whilst reading them; I felt scared, humbled, humiliated – on occasion complimented – at times frustrated, insulted, overwhelmed, confused. Mostly, I felt compelled. Unfiltered consciousness in my inbox twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week.
. . .
Gadd The date was 24 January 2013. I had received over a thousand emails from her in the space of ten days.
. . .
Gadd And I had only met her twice.
. . .
Martha Email Beutiful boy come save me. He who looks like the baby reindeer.
Scene Three
Gadd I felt sorry for her. That’s the first feeling I felt. It’s a patronising, arrogant feeling, feeling sorry for someone you’ve only just met. But I did. I felt sorry for her.
. . .
Gadd Maybe it’s the fact she’s shaking. Maybe it’s the fact she’s clearly just been crying. Whatever it is – whatever irrational sense of heroism I feel right now makes me sit her on the bar stool and calm her down like I’ve got it all figured out.
. . .
Gadd She keeps thanking me over and over in a thick Northern Irish accent. Not once does she hold my eye.
. . .
Gadd Can I get you something?
Martha No thanks.
. . .
Gadd Are you sure? Cup of tea?
Martha No thanks.
. . .
Gadd You have to buy something.
Martha Can’t afford something.
Gadd Right. Not even a cup of tea?
Martha No.
. . .
Gadd Well, how about I give you a cup of tea on the house?
. . .
Gadd She sits up. Eyes on me now. Then, al
most like a concession, she nods. And smiles. She had a beautiful smile. It changed everything about her.
. . .
Gadd I’m not giving you another one.
Martha What?
Gadd A tea.
Martha What?
Gadd It’s going to go cold.
Martha What do you mean?
Gadd I’m saying you’d better drink, because your tea’s going to go cold –
. . .
Gadd She takes one sip then tells me –
. . .
Martha It’s cold.
. . .
Gadd I’ll get you another one.
. . .
Gadd As I make her the tea, I can feel her gaze burning into me. Every now and then I look up at her, and as I turn, I expect her to look away. To feel that unmistakable British shame of staring at someone, but as I turn, I meet her gaze and she just stays staring. Unbroken. At me.
. . .
Gadd So what do you do?
Martha I’m a lawyer.
. . .
Gadd Oh really? What’s that like then?
. . .
Gadd She bursts into life like I had just pressed her factory restore button. One-hundred-mile-an-hour conversation.
. . .
Martha I trained in criminal law, moved to England – retrained – opened up my own practice – got promoted to the bar – won several awards – now I’m an in-house advisor to the government.
. . .
Gadd She spoke without hesitation, never pausing – poetically leaping from point to point like her autobiography only allowed for a few sentences per chapter before she needed to move on to the next.
. . .
Martha I own various properties around town – a flat in Pimlico overlooking a private park – another in Shoreditch – one in Bexleyheath – two in Belsize Park – I have my own firm up in Hampstead where I advise our country’s political leaders – David Cameron, Nick Clegg, Alex Salmond –’
. . .
Gadd She even showed me their names on her phone.
. . .
Gadd Wow. You must have amazing dinner parties.
. . .
Gadd She laughed. She had an incredible laugh – an infectious, giddy, slightly disconcerting, laugh.
. . .
Martha Voicemail *Laugh.*
. . .
Gadd I was transfixed.
. . .
Gadd Her name was Martha.
. . .
Gadd But all I could think was – if all of this is true, then why can’t you afford a cup of tea?
Scene Four
Martha Email omg you crak me up, that moitsuriser stuff. Incribde. Heard some lines in my times, but that one isd the bees, went straghtgg home after had to write it down, relaly enjoyed, hadn’t blushed in a while but I was betrroot, fg great!!!! Sent from my iPhone
. . .
Gadd Martha always ordered a soft drink – Diet Coke, usually, or tea – and I continue to give her it on the house. She would be there five minutes before every single shift I worked and perch herself on the bar until I was done.
. . .
Gadd She always opened the conversation by telling me – ‘I’ve gotta go’ – but then would stick around for the entire shift despite saying this.
. . .
Gadd I always thought it was strange that she painted herself as a busy person. Like, if she made out she was busy, she could trick me into thinking that she is not spending all of her time hanging around.
. . .
Gadd She would talk endlessly about people in her life without ever explaining who they are – ‘I was talking to Steve today – I was chatting to Joan – Alan was just on the phone.’ Like I knew them already. Like I was already a part of her life. And I would respond by saying –
. . .
Gadd ‘How’s Steve by the way? I forgot to ask!’
– and she would howl with laughter, suddenly aware of the irony, or just engrossed in the fact I’m giving her attention.
. . .
Martha Voicemail *Laugh.*
. . .
Gadd She was about forty-five, quite rotund, and she dressed in ill-fitting clothes, mostly pink, or purple, a good few sizes too small for her. She often wore a puce berry on her head which never sat at the right angle and she always seemed to be sweating. She would have a fierce sweat on her forehead almost all the time.
. . .
Gadd So I don’t know what it was in me – but I start to pay her little compliments here and there –
. . .
Gadd Your birthday’s coming up?! Your twenty-first, is it?!
. . .
Martha Voicemail *Laugh.*
. . .
Gadd You’re forty-five?! Well, I’ll be damned! You had better give Peter Pan his moisturiser back!
. . .
Martha Voicemail *Laugh.*
. . .
Gadd I began to love her laugh. Obsess with it. Do everything I could to eke it out of her. It was flirtatious, fun. Surface level. I genuinely thought I was doing a nice thing. You don’t need to fancy someone to flirt with them, right? It’s casual, it’s harmless, it’s –
. . .
Gadd Becoming a joke around the bar –
Bartender 1 Alright, Gadd, your girlfriend’s back!
Bartender 2 Oi, Martha! I think Gadd has feelings for you!
Bartender 3 When are you two going to fuck?!
Bartender 4 Wayyyyyy!!
. . .
Gadd She sat in the middle of it all – soaking up each comment like it fuelled her, the walls of the pub dropping away and its prom night – her in the middle of the dance floor, us watching on spellbound.
. . .
Gadd Martha is talking about her Belsize Park penthouse when a joke presents itself. She says she is decorating her bedroom at the moment, and she needs her curtains hung.
. . .
Gadd The comment hangs in the air.
. . .
Gadd She needs her curtains hung. Someone? Anyone? Is nobody taking it? Curtains hung? As in, the curtains you get in a house? Vaginal curtains –?!
. . .
Gadd ‘I’ll hang your curtains?!’
. . .
Gadd Everyone pisses themselves laughing.
. . .
Gadd Bar her.
. . .
Gadd She just sits in the middle of it all, her lips stationary, her big brown eyes widening. I am looking at her, wanting her to laugh. Wanting her to share in the joke. But she doesn’t. She just stares. I knew then, in that moment –
. . .
Gadd That she has taken it literally.
. . .
Bartender Interview You know from the first moment I met her, there was like a – like a kind of warning sign, you know, that rang out, like a bell – ‘stay away from this woman’ – and I used to watch you and you would be bantering away with her, serving her and stuff like that, and I’d be thinking, don’t get too close to her. She’s clearly, you know, dangerous, do you know what I mean?
Scene Five
Martha Email Baby reindeer. Roses are tooclich, thhhink outside the box for me, orchids or Lllies if tulip wasn’t slang id ask youfor Them. Ever been called a tulip? I can cum several times in one sitting, wil teach you well, all in th efingers. You got a Bird? Hope nogt. Get rid ifo so. I’ll be more worthWhile. I’ve gotta go. M. Sent from my iPhone
. . .
Gadd I knew instantly, it was her. Her email address a random series of numbers and letters – like spam – but the writing exactly like she spoke. Unhesitating. Unfiltered. Unapologetically raw.
. . .
Gadd I had put my address on my website. That’s the only way I figured she could have got it. My currency as a comedian so low at this point that the dangers of putting any personal details online were small.
. . .
Gadd There was a confidence to the writing that I couldn’t tell belied or exacerbated my pla
cing of her as some kind of victim. The spelling errors on words that were much simpler to spell than other words she has spelled perfectly. The fact she has an iPhone. Even though she doesn’t when I see her texting at the bar.
. . .
Gadd It all compounded her growing mystery. I imagined what a world comprising solely of people like her might be like. Primitive directness. All fucking and madness. It was exciting in its own weird way.
. . .
Gadd Eighty-four emails, starting off at ten in the morning, expiring at half-past eleven at night – proof, perhaps, of something more than a lingering fascination? An unhinged mind, an unhinged obsession, perhaps?
. . .
Gadd But overriding that –
. . .
Gadd Check this shit out!
Bartender 1 No way! Who is this person?!
Gadd This woman, she’s been following me around, everywhere.
Bartender 2 Oh man, you need to print that off and frame it.
Gadd Some of them are really fucking funny!
Teri She seems unwell.
. . .
Gadd Yeah, yeah, she probably is.
. . .
Gadd I have brought Martha up six weeks into my relationship with Teri. I had always kept it from her because I wasn’t entirely sure how she would react.
. . .
Gadd I adored Teri but our relationship was anything but simple. She – a Mediterranean, gender non-conformist, sexually fluid, politically active, trans woman – and I, a sexually repressed white male comedian. Got to love that tension!
. . .
Gadd I met Teri by signing up to a website called mytranssexualdate.com. I knew I wanted to explore myself, but I had no idea how – by twenty-three, my sexuality was like opening a door to carol singers in June. Highly confusing.
. . .
Gadd Teri was a lethal intellectual. An anthropologist with a PhD, hugely politically engaged, even a modicum of fame on a reality TV show at one point, and now devoting her spare time to working for a company which helps young people deal with their transition.
. . .