Eye of the tiger

“Rising up, back on the street. Did my time, took my chances. Went the distance, now I'm back on my feet. Just a man and his will to survive.” Ketan yawned and stretched as his favourite song roared from his mobile phone on the other side of the room. He felt disorientated and had no idea what time or day it was. His brain slowly awakened and he wondered who was calling.

The phone stopped ringing and as he lay on the hard floor it all came back to him. His body heaved and he began weeping. He'd wheeled and dealed his way out of holes before, but he'd hit rock bottom this time and saw no way out; other than the pills scattered across the exposed floorboard directly in-front of his eyes. It should have been all over by now. As soon as he was informed he’d decided he could take no more. But he'd bottled it.

His stiff back made it difficult to move, so he placed his right palm on the floorboard and tried to push himself up. His energy was sapped though and he collapsed back down. Lying prostrate, he half-heartedly hit the floor with his fist, aggravating his red-raw knuckles. Ketan screamed out in pain, despair and regret.

He glanced around the gloomy lounge of his now decrepit country mansion. Its fall from grace echoed his own, and both downfalls had been instigated by him. He’d made stupid decisions and let what was important slip through his fingers. What he wouldn’t let slip was the handful of tablets his fingers reached out and grabbed. He rubbed the coarse white coating and imagined the life his soul would be reincarnated into. However, rather than finding comfort in the thought of rebirth, he was scared and doubtful of the Hinduism belief.

His phone vibrated and Survivor belted out their hit song again. “Rising up, back on the street. Did my time, took my chances. Went the distance, now I'm back on my feet. Just a man and his will to survive.” The lyrics he’d heard a thousand times had never been less apt. However, they stirred something within and he whispered along, “So many times it happens too fast, you change your passion for glory. Don't lose your grip on the dreams of the past, you must fight just to keep them alive.”

The uplifting music stopped and so too did his temporary surge in mood, leaving him alone with the pills. He edged them steadily nearer to his mouth. When they touched his lips, he realised he didn’t have a drink to wash them down. The chalky tablets would stick in his throat, and although he wanted to die, he wasn’t keen on choking. So, he summoned sufficient energy to stand.

He staggered to the door-less doorway and paused to consider the plasterboard wall he’d punched through. No wonder his knuckles hurt.

He continued through the stripped out and torn up house in his bare feet, weaving around gaping holes in the floor and wooden floorboards propped up or piled high. He arrived in a large room that was once the kitchen and now an empty space with exposed bricks and pipework. He knelt down on a pile of chipped tiles, clasped his hands together and closed his eyes. “Om trayambakam yajaamahe sugandhim pushtivardhanam. Urvaarukamiva bandhanaan mrityor muksheeya maamritaat.”

His eyes opened and immediately fixed upon the rusty stopcock. He attempted to turn it, however his weak arm couldn’t budge the stiff tap, so he dropped the tablets onto the floor and twisted with both hands. The tap suddenly loosened and water spurted straight into his face.

He stepped back and wiped his shaved short receding black hair, bristly stubble and straight nose. His dark brown eyes glared at the pipe and his blood began boiling. The rush of adrenaline pushed him over the edge and he gathered the tablets off the dusty floorboard and threw them into his mouth. He leaned towards the flowing water and opened wide.

“Rising up, back on the street. Did my time, took my chances. Went the distance, now I'm back on my feet. Just a man and his will to survive.”

Ketan spat out at the tablets. “WHAT DO YOU WANT?” He ran through the house to yell at the person ruining his life. He picked up his mobile from the lounge floor and accepted the call. “WHO IS THIS?”

“Sust lund ki padaish, you’ve answered!”

“Puru?” What did his Solicitor want?

“What are you going to do?”

How could Puru have known he was on the brink? He hadn’t spoken to him in over a year. “About what?”

“About what? About what? What do you think? I’m not interested in what you’re cooking for dinner.”

“Have you lost it?”

“Have you?”

The line went silent as Ketan contemplated what Puru wanted.

“You’ve seen the news?” asked Puru.

“No.”

“Teri gaand mein haathi ka lund! Put on the television.”

Ketan looked around the empty room. “It’s not working.”

“And you can't afford a new one?” Puru asked incredulously. 

“It broke this morning.”

“You haven’t blown the money?”

“No,” said Ketan indignantly.

“Good, because you’re going to need it.”

“Why?”

“It’s over, it’s all over.”

“What is?”

“The Government’s cut its losses. They’ve wiped clean the constitution. There are no more laws. Because of us. Because of what we did.”

“We… We didn’t-”

“The precedent we set, we’ve bankrupted the country.” The country wasn’t the only one bankrupt. “We’re being targeted.”

“No one will blame us.”

“They already are! You’ve been named by Vincent Knight.”

“We didn't do anything wrong.”

“That's not what they think. Pictures are circulating online. They’ll be lynch mobs. They’ll string us up. They’ll…”

Ketan zoned out of Puru’s ranting. Whereas his motormouth Solicitor was flipping out in panic, Ketan’s mind cleared for the first time in months. He punched the air repeatedly and danced on the spot, before running back to the kitchen. He lowered his phone and picked up the letter on the windowsill, feeling significantly more relaxed about it this time.

‘DO NOT IGNORE THIS LETTER. FAO: Ketan Malhotra. I, Kenneth Stampler, attended your address today to execute a Distress Warrant against you on behalf of Oxford Magistrates Court. The amount outstanding is £723,500. I have been refused entry/unable to contact you at the address and believe that you are willfully trying to avoid me and evade payment of this account. You should be aware that there exists a power under Schedule 4A of the Domestic Violence, Crime and Victims Act to enable us to enter your property, BY FORCE, using locksmiths where required, to execute this warrant. If you fail to contact me within the next 24 hours I will have no alternative but to re-attend your property with a locksmith to conclude this matter at ANY HOUR OF DAY OR NIGHT. I will have the authority to use the above powers to IMPOUND YOUR VEHICLE, REPOSSESS YOUR PROPERTY and REMOVE YOUR GOODS to satisfy your unpaid debts.’

Poor old Ken didn’t have any authority anymore. Ketan felt as much sympathy for the bailiff as he did for the traffic wardens that had long chased his shadow. Ketan looked around at the house he had inadvertently ruined while scavenging for stuff to sell. The idea of losing this place had sickened him yesterday, as he loved living on his own estate out in the countryside. But now he felt totally comfortable with it, even relieved. It was someone else’s problem now. Kenneth’s problem. He was welcome to repossess the dilapidated wreck, impound thin air and seize the old newspapers and worthless coins that Ketan had discovered in his search for long-lost valuables.

Ketan ripped up the letter and threw the pieces into the lake beneath his feet.

He raised the phone back to his ear. “And they’ll be no end to it,” continued Puru. “Now look, don’t do anything stupid. If you kill yourself, they’ll come for me.” Always thinking of himself, Puru wanted Ketan as a buffer. Puru needn’t worry though, Ketan had no intention of ending his life. In-fact, he had just been reborn, fortunately without the need for dying first.

“Puru, I have a plan.”

“Oh, you do?”

“This is fate.”

“How do you-”

“I’ll be in-touch.” Ketan turned off the phone and slipped it into his jean’s pocket. He turned the key in the back door and exited into the wild garden. Everything had been neglected since his staff abandoned him nearly nine months ago. Ketan paused to take a large in-take of cool fresh country air and slowly exhaled. He then paced around the side of the house with a spring in his step, even the loose stones digging into his bare feet unable to curb his enthusiasm. Arriving at the front, he took one last look at the elegant Grade II listed Georgian House. It had been described as ‘beautifully restored’ when he bought it for a cool £20 million, and from the outside it still looked impeccable with no trace of the demolition job inside. Kenneth would get quite a shock when he returned with his locksmith. The overgrown greenery was the only hint of the internal chaos, with the creeper plant having covered the windows.

Ketan rolled back his shirt sleeves, revealing his strong hairy arms, and then paused to consider his cheap creased jeans and shirt, a World away from the designer clothes he’d grown accustomed to after the payout. It was time to turn the corner. It was time to reclaim his life. He turned and began bounding down the long driveway. He was stranded miles from anywhere, with no car, shoes or money, but he felt on top of the world and sang at the top of his voice. “It's the eye of the tiger. It's the thrill of the fight, rising up to the challenge of our rival. And the last known survivor, stalks his prey in the night, and he's watching us all with the eye of the tiger.”