Free The Footballer's Wife by Kerry Katona Page A

again. ‘Hit my fucking daughter andthink that’s OK?’ And again he punched him in the face.
    Charly ran across the room; Len could feel her pulling at his back. ‘Dad, don’t . . . please, no!’ she screamed. ‘He didn’t do anything.’
    â€˜Walked into the fridge, did she?’ Len spat in Joel’s face before punching him again. ‘They fucking wreck those fridges, don’t they?’ He drove his fist into Joel’s already bloodied face.
    â€˜Dad!’ Charly screamed, thumping Len on the back. Len stumbled backwards, looking at the mess he’d created. Joel tried to get to his feet, but couldn’t; he was gurgling something incomprehensible.
    â€˜If you’ve got any sense you’ll come home now,’ Len said between breaths.
    â€˜After this? Are you mental?’ she screamed.
    Len looked at Charly; what was she doing? This lad had money – so what? As Len stared at his daughter he missed the fact that Joel was mustering up every ounce of energy he had. He launched himself at Len, rugby tackling him to the floor, snapping the coffee table in two, with Len’s back taking the brunt of the fall. The last thing Len remembered was the impact of the blow knocking him clean out.
    Charly was in casualty for the second time that day. Her father had been out for the count and had swallowed his tongue. Amazingly some first aid training that Charly had done at school – which at the time had seemed like a thorough waste of hers and everyone else’s morning – had probably saved his life. Joel had stayed at home, which was definitely for the best, and Charly had accompanied her dad in the ambulance to St Mary’s. He had come round on the way there, but they were keeping him in overnight for observation. The police had come to take a statement but Len had remained tight-lipped, and refused to give any account of what had happened to him, much to Charly’s relief.
    Charly knew that if the papers got wind of this scandal there would be a bank of paparazzi at the front door so, after she had said her terse goodbye to her father and headed for the door, she decided to see if there was a side exit she might be able to sidle out of. She called a cab company and asked to be picked up at the Academy on Oxford Road. It was a little bit of a walk but she knew where it was and she couldn’t risk waiting for a taxi by the hospital.
    Charly spied an emergency exit but it was well and truly shut with a break-glass bolt over it for added security – she kept on walking. She eventually found a fire escape on the third floor that was propped ajar, letting air into the stuffy corridor. Charly looked around before pushing it open and finding herself having to shin down an escape ladder. She jumped the last few feet to the ground and dusted herself down while checking that the coast was clear. She walked along the side of the building and out into the street that led from the hospital to the main area of Manchester University. It was a busy night and she was soon being carried along by a throng of students. She didn’t reach the venue where the taxi was waiting: she saw a cab with its yellow light on approaching. Charly flagged it down and jumped in. Now she had to go home and face Joel. He should have come to hospital with them, such was the severity of the injuries he’d received at the hands of Charly’s father. But he had refused, insisting on cleaning his face up himself and staying in the apartment. Charly felt sick to her stomach. She couldn’t imagine the reception she was going to receive when she got home, but she knew one thing: it wasn’t going to be good.
    Charly was exhausted by the time she reached her apartment block. Thankfully there was no sign of any long lens cameras as she paid the taxi driver and walked as inconspicuously as possible through the main entrance. She was dreading seeing what Joel looked like.