Baby Reindeer

by Richard Gadd

  Scene Eleven

  Gadd I am crouched down, stocking up the fridges of the pub with over-priced beer, when I stand up to find Martha, sitting at the end of the bar. After everything, she still comes in.

  . . .

  Martha I’ve gotta go.

  . . .

  Gadd A new staff member had served her while I was wasn’t looking and there she was, expecting me to notice, expecting me to care, winning yet another round in this stupefying dance.

  . . .

  Gadd She knew she had me now. The police so exhausted by the case – and me, now, suddenly, the bad guy, in their eyes. There was nothing I could do.

  . . .

  Gadd She sips her Diet Coke through a straw, a cocky smile pursed at the side of her lips, knowing fine well how much this small action would needle me. And it did fucking needle me.

  . . .

  Martha Have you really broken up with your slag girlfriend?

  . . .

  Gadd I wanted to tell her she should be barred for grabbing my cock in a corridor, but I didn’t want to give her the fucking privilege of showing I care. So, instead – nothing. I simply carrying on stocking the fridge, when she says –

  . . .

  Martha I read your review by the way. One star. Not funny, apparently. Not funny at all.

  . . .

  Gadd She had managed to dig out a Soho Theatre review from a few months back. One I had just about managed to forget about.

  . . .

  Gadd A bad review can knock the breath out of you at the best of times, but when it’s coming out the mouth of someone who is stalking you? Someone who is harassing your family?!

  . . .

  Gadd She turns to a bald man on the table next to her and taps him on the shoulder – and hands him her phone – the review already open.

  Martha Excuse me. Have you read his one-star review?

  Customer What’s this?

  Martha It’s a review for his shit, shit comedy show.

  . . .

  Gadd He turns to me –

  Customer You’re a comedian?

  Martha He’s a barman, a two-bit ‘actor type’ – but he does these ludicrous shows. Embarrassing, really. Read the review! Read the review!

  . . .

  Gadd And within seconds, they are sharing in the laugh together.

  . . .

  Customer ‘Gadd appears in a mattress and dances to “Agado” in a routine instantly dislikeable from the off.’

  . . .

  Martha Voicemail *Laugh.*

  . . .

  Customer ‘Also every sketch seems to contain wanking or male on male abuse of some kind – is this really where comedy is heading?’

  . . .

  Martha Voicemail *Laugh.*

  . . .

  Customer ‘There are many reasons this show doesn’t work, mainly it is. Just. Not. Funny.’

  . . .

  Martha Voicemail *Laugh.*

  . . .

  Gadd I tell you what, mate. Why you don’t you Google something else? ‘Perverse Stalker Torments Barrister’s Deaf Child.’

  . . .

  Gadd Her face drops.

  . . .

  Customer What’s that, mate?

  . . .

  Gadd ‘Perverse. Stalker. Torments. Barrister’s. Deaf. Child –’

  . . .

  Gadd She’s on me. Grabbing my face like someone might catch a pair of keys, and her nails go right inside my skin and I swear for one second I feel her finger under my eyeball, and so, what do you do? I had months of anger and emails and moving house and fucking pissed-off worries and one-star, £6.50, phoning my parents, fucking following me home. Bullshit! Now she’s attacking me?!

  . . .

  Gadd Three punches in the head – a reflex – before I’d even rationalised it. She buckled at the knees, but still this outstretched hand stayed clutching in vain at my face. She goes for me once more when five barmen – that’s how many it took – force her outside.

  Martha Frankie Boyle’s mouth got him into trouble! Yours is going to get you in trouble too!

  Gadd Her last words, as she was pulled from the bar. . . .

  Gadd This was about two in the afternoon. What a sight this must have been. The people eating their lunch must have thought – why did that twenty-five-year-old barman just punch the fuck out of a forty-five-year-old woman? It’s funny what an image without context will do.

  . . .

  Gadd I turn to the man who just read out the review – a look of utter bewilderment on his face.

  Customer What’s going on, mate?

  . . .

  Gadd The most simple yet loaded statement I have ever heard in my life. I responded, in a moment of self-pity I felt I deserved –

  . . .

  Gadd I gave her a cup of tea.

  . . .

  Gadd I gave her a cup of tea.

  . . .

  Martha Email I am done withoiiu after I have written this email. you have upset me more than its possible to comprehend, You have called me psycho etc etc to others who have said to me. I have two degrees, one doctorate and in fact best first class English degree in whole country and so in fact you are the stupid one I know more about English than you, You hav an ugly face, with stupid intentions, anaïve career and brought up badly by shit parents and a terrible school, This is me being kind!!!!!! You have no future in comedy acting or any of your stupid shows, that pub will be shut and your shit uni and piointless degree will be sucked of all funding. I do not make enemies easily but you have eaten all the biscuit re me, or taken the busucuit, that is all I have to say, I wont send a pack of lawyers after you becuas eyour pockets are empty but I will come if every they’re full, Why dont you move back to Glasgow? Ful of workshy fenians like you and peados and criminals like your family, why come here? We were happy here. Stay away, my contacts are considerable and they are all very angryw ith uyou.

  . . .

  Martha Email Ps I love you, that nevr changes. Sent from my iPhone.

  Act Three

  Scene One

  Gadd It’s Edinburgh 2016. I’m at the Fringe doing a show called Monkey See Monkey Do. A show where I laid my cards out on the deck. About the man, about everything he did to me, my sexuality – everything. It was a big moment.

  . . .

  Gadd By this point, I felt like I had no choice but to accept the fact that Martha was a part of my life. The last experience with the police was so burning, so embarrassing, that I refused to involve them again.

  . . .

  Gadd After everything that has happened between us, I still couldn’t believe that I am the one with a caution on my record and that she has been held accountable for none of the things she has done to harass me and my family.

  . . .

  Gadd Martha was barred by the pub for attacking me, and – exhausted by her behaviour, and unsettled by our last encounter – I decided to leave too. It felt clean that way. To go our separate ways, like two boxers fighting to a majority draw – the concussions of the past still ringing in our minds. The vague probability of a rematch later down the line, apprehensively building.

  . . .

  Gadd Her last email stuffed full of Hollywood vengeance. An ambition to drain my life of all meaning. How serious was she?! I no longer wanted to find out.

  . . .

  Gadd Martha didn’t know where I lived – or worked – and I had her emails sent to a blocked folder – which meant every time she messaged it would simply slot into a file I couldn’t see. I had plastered over her. Shut the window to her relentless ranting. She was still there – I just wasn’t looking anymore.

  . . .

  Gadd That month, in Edinburgh, a documentary crew followed me around to shoot a man on the edge of a nervous breakdown when – halfway through – they captured footage of a pair of boxer shorts, some sleeping pills, a letter and a cuddly baby reindeer, arriving at the venue.

  . . .

  Gadd I simply
pushed it into the back of my mind and focused on other things.

  . . .

  Gadd I went on holiday straight afterwards – turning my phone off for a full week. Sent an out-of-office reply – added my signature for some professional pizzazz – boom, done – and off I went!

  . . .

  Gadd It was a big moment winning that award. I had strived for it my entire life. Dreamed about it every night before I sleep. This is going to sound ridiculous – but there is nothing like the feeling of winning the biggest live comedy award in the world to let your abuser know – fuck you! You failed to break me.

  . . .

  Gadd When I land back in the UK, I wait until I have unpacked and showered before turning my phone back on. I want to sit and listen to the congratulations messages. From friends and family – professional contacts – enjoy them in one big chunk. I have worked hard for this moment – so very fucking hard.

  . . .

  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. You have fifty new messages.

  . . .

  Gadd Fifty voicemails?! Oh yeah, baby!

  . . .

  Darren Voicemail Alright, you sack of bollocks. Fucking mad reading about everything. I should probably apologise for all those times I’ve called you a poof. though I am gutted you’ve hung around me this long and never thought to crack onto me. Anyway, give me a call back you award-winning-poof!

  . . .

  Teri Voicemail Hi, it’s me – I – I saw the news and wanted to say congrats. I saw how much you struggled. I hope all this stuff you’re going through helps you reach some kind of peace in yourself. I’ve met a new man, so don’t call me back. I’m not sure he’s much different. It is what it is. I dunno why I’m calling, really. Good luck, Dicky. Enjoy it.

  . . .

  Martha Voicemail I’ve just been putting down the basics regarding what you said to the police about me and I just wanted to say nobody is going to believe a word that comes out of your mouth. So shut your trap, yeah? Your team, your agent, your whatever. Shut right up. Up, up, up. I cannot express to you how furious I am about the way you shafted me.

  . . .

  Gadd She has my number.

  . . .

  Gadd How the fuck did she get my number?!

  Scene Two

  Gadd She’s filled it up! She’s maxed it out! I didn’t know you could fill up a voicemail?! Why the fuck would my out of office rebound to a blocked address?!

  . . .

  Gadd Shit, shit, shit – okay, think – think. I start deleting her messages. I don’t want to give her the fucking privilege of clogging up my entire inbox.

  . . .

  Martha Voicemail I’ve gotta go in a –

  EE Message deleted.

  . . .

  Gadd Plus, my brain is already wrought with the idea of the messages I might have missed.

  . . .

  Martha Voicemail Don’t forget –

  EE Message deleted.

  . . .

  Gadd Old friends calling to say nice things.

  . . .

  Martha Voicemail Baby reindeer –

  EE Message deleted.

  . . .

  Gadd What if someone called, offering me work, and then couldn’t leave me a message?! And now they’ve forgotten about it entirely?! Fuck, I’m never turning my phone off again!

  . . .

  07840 475173 *Ringing.*

  . . .

  Gadd And then she starts calling me.

  . . .

  Gadd She’s calling me – on my fucking phone! Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck!

  . . .

  Gadd I block her number. I’ve done it before to that fucking prick and that was the end of his ability to contact me – so this will be the end of her – surely?!

  . . .

  07505 821794 *Ringing.*

  . . .

  Gadd Then she calls me off another phone! Only a fucking stalker would have multiple phones!

  . . .

  Gadd I block that one too. Then I unpack some more. I decide to busy my hands while I figure out what all this means. If she has my number, she can’t do mad shit with it, can she?! Sign me up to spam mailing lists or get into my police records somehow? No, that’s mad – surely, that’s mad –?! I’ve blocked her. There’s nothing more she can do –

  . . .

  Unknown Number *Ringing.*

  . . .

  Gadd Then she rings me off an unknown number! The mad bitch is ringing me off an unknown number!

  . . .

  Gadd I repeat the process. I open my phone. Go into settings. Scroll through the drop-down and realise – you can’t block unknown numbers on a smartphone!

  . . .

  Gadd I try and download some software, but it’s all too expensive and none of it fucking works – and so after a while, I give up deleting her messages. I decide I’m going to leave my inbox full and just leave it to the cunts at EE to tell her she can’t leave me any more.

  . . .

  Gadd Maybe if she hears it from them eighty times a day – maybe, just maybe, it will sink in. Maybe, just maybe – she might fucking realise that her behaviour isn’t normal at all!

  . . .

  Unknown Number *Ringing.*

  . . .

  Gadd But she doesn’t. She rings all morning, all afternoon, all evening – and long into the night, sometimes in the hundreds –

  . . .

  Gadd– and there’s something about her having access to my phone – having access to the fucking device my life runs off. The fact she vibrates near my crotch – I don’t want her vibrating anywhere near my crotch. The fact that every time I text someone or send an email she cuts through it by phoning me – every fucking minute of every day –!

  . . .

  Unknown Number *Ringing.*

  . . .

  Gadd She’s ringing me again. Literally, now, as I stand here!

  Policeman I can see that, Mr Gadd.

  Gadd Well, then, do something about it. You can’t ring someone that many times in a day, surely?!

  Policeman Leaving somebody voicemails is not in itself a crime –

  Gadd So what you’re telling me is I can call anyone up – anyone I meet – as many times as I want – all hours of the day and as long as I don’t threaten them I’m free to do as I please?!

  Police You’re not planning to are you?

  Gadd No! I’m not planning to! I’m making a point! This behaviour shouldn’t be allowed!

  Policeman You could change your number?

  Gadd Why do I have to adjust my behaviour around her? She should adjust hers around me! Here, take my phone. Download the voicemails. Listen to her. I’m serious. She needs help. Whether she threatens me or not, she needs help.

  Policeman We can’t listen to that many voicemails. We don’t have the resources.

  Gadd So, what?! What am I supposed to do?

  Policeman Go home, listen to them – and mark down moments where she says something threatening. If she has left you fifty messages, the chances are there will be something there we can use.

  . . .

  Unknown Number *Ringing.*

  Scene Three

  Gadd That weekend, I listened to sixteen hours of voicemail – and I had barely scratched the surface. She had left me thirty-three hours in total in the days while I was away. And the scariest part? It took her two days to fill it. Thirty-three hours in two days.

  . . .

  Gadd After sacrificing the first weekend to her gulf of voicemails, I decide the best course of action is to hook my laptop up to my phone and export the voicemails overnight. Then email myself that MP3 and download it back onto my phone so I can listen with headphones.

  . . .

  Gadd She became the podcast to my life. I listened to her on every tube journey, every bus ride. In the street between meetings. She was there, in my ears, all the time, and in a fucked-up
way she had got all she wanted. She was spending every waking minute with me.

  . . .

  Gadd Every seven days the voicemails automatically deleted and she would refill my inbox – all thirty-three hours – all over again. And I would repeat the process – hooking up my laptop, exporting the voicemails, emailing them to myself, re-downloading them, and listening to every single one. Thirty-three hours a week was almost a full working week. I was devoting a full working week to Martha.

  . . .

  Martha Voicemail And it wasn’t until after I got back to the flat – to the house – that I realised you probably felt the same, it’s an energy thing isn’t it? You know when you know.

  . . .

  Gadd The voicemails played out a retrospective of our entire relationship. The emotional instability, chats, bile, misinformation, painting the fact we were loved ones –

  . . .

  Martha Voicemail When you said you were all about hanging the curtains and all that, I remember going home – I needed a sandwich, you see, and so I brushed my teeth, headed out – and I think you must’ve been working a half-day or covering for that Emerald bitch – because, when I got back you weren’t there.

  . . .

  Gadd She remembered everything with such lucidity. Moments I’d forgotten about, other times I had been ignorant or said something which had given her false promise.

  . . .

  Martha Voicemail Remember the picnics in the park? Well, I went out that day, bought a ton – from Sainsbury’s – cocktail sausages, cheese-strings, and all that, and the next day you looked at me like I was a fucking alien. You were the one who suggested it!

  . . .

  Gadd Other times, I couldn’t believe the meaning she would glean from the most implausible places.

  . . .

  Martha Voicemail It was a Wednesday, I remember midweek, because I’d just done the accounts, yeah? And I was in the pub for my break and I was watching you serving in your tight whites and I remember thinking, red, red is your colour, don’t know why you’re wasting your time with these tight whites, you know? Well, the next day you were wearing red – isn’t that? I mean, I don’t know whether you believe in those things but I – do you get what I’m saying?