The Omission Index, Ch 5: Fulminating Heart Pt. 2

A boy with world-breaking powers. A family hiding a devastating secret. Two agents on a collision course. Kwan wants to save him, Hale wants to stop him—by any means necessary.

When Hale and Kwan arrived at the Ali residence, the police had already sealed off Davenport Road. A couple of blue and white panda cars were parked at either end, their presence a stark announcement in the otherwise quiet terraced street. Bobbies, helmets gleaming dully under the overcast sky, were stationed at intervals, a visible, watchful net.

The houses here were different. Back home, even in modest neighborhoods, there was usually a patch of grass, a driveway, some breathing room between properties. Here, they were pressed together, shoulder to shoulder, a continuous wall of brick and net-curtained windows. Each front door, painted a different color - a defiant splash of individuality - opened almost directly onto the pavement. There was no transitional space. Just a step, and you were in. It felt exposed.

Hale followed a young constable towards a house midway down the terrace, its door a faded green, a small, neatly tended rose bush struggling for life in a concrete planter beside it. Number seventeen. This was it.

A Shahistani woman in her fifties, dressed in a shalwar kameez of dark red and gold, was waiting for them. The constable ushered Hale and Kwan into the narrow front hallway, then stood back.

“Thank you,” said Kwan, smiling at the officer.

“Of course,” the constable replied, clearly eager to be useful. “Good luck!” he added, a bit too brightly, and stepped back out onto the street.

The Shahistani woman watched as Kwan and Hale shed their coats. “I am sorry about the policeman," she said, sounding slightly embarrassed. “He's new. I don't know where they find them.”

“Don't worry about it,” Hale assured her. “We're from SHEPARD. My name is Tom Hale, and this is my partner, Mr. Ezra Kwan.”

“Nusrat Ali,” she replied, taking Kwan's proffered hand. Hale did likewise. “Please, come in. See if we can help. We are all just shaken. This is… terrible. Please excuse the mess.”

The front room smelled of antiseptic and cardamom tea. Faded family photos crowded floral wallpaper - graduation portraits interspersed with studio shots of brides in crimson lehengas. An embroidered book rested on a lace-covered side table beside an untouched plate of barfi sweets glistening with silver leaf. Rashid Ali sat hunched on a sagging sofa, forehead bandaged where he’d struck the market stall table. His hands trembled around a chipped mug as he stared at a paused television screen showing cricket highlights from another decade.

"These men are here about Sameer,” Nusrat said. “Government people."

Rashid didn't look up. "You come to arrest him? My boy who brings roti for stray dogs? Who cried when his grandmother’s rosebush died?" His knuckles whitened around the mug. "Or perhaps you come to finish what Choudry started?"

Kwan crouched until his eyes were level with Rashid’s downcast gaze. "We want to help Sameer before anyone else gets hurt." He gestured to his slinged arm. "Including him."

The mug shattered on worn carpet tiles before anyone saw Rashid move. Brown liquid seeped into faded peacock patterns as he surged upright. "You think I don’t know what your 'help' looks like? In Nooriyabad we saw your American friends 'help' students during Zahir’s time - boys came home fingernail-less or not at all!"

Nusrat gripped her husband’s elbow. "Rashid-bhai - "

"Three generations we’ve been here!" Spittle caught the light as he shook off her touch. "Paid taxes, kept halal shops! And now they send jackals because my son defended his father’s honor?"

Hale stepped forward, his voice cool as surgical steel. "Your son fractured twelve bones in a man’s chest without touching him. Collapsed part of a public building this morning." He pulled a photo from his jacket - Choudry’s X-ray showing ribs splintered like kindling. "This isn’t honor defense anymore."

The room stilled. Through thin walls came neighborhood sounds: a baby crying, Bollywood music down the street mixing with BBC news radio from across the road.

Nusrat touched the X-ray’s edge. "Sameer didn’t mean... It was an accident."

"Accidents get worse without control." Kwan kept his tone gentle but firm as he produced a folded silk scarf from his pocket - sapphire threads crusted brown at one end. "Your husband’s blood on Choudry’s clothes suggests he struck out intentionally, even if he didn't understand his own strength."

Rashid froze near a display cabinet crammed with cricket trophies and Eid decorations. His reflection warped in tarnished silver. "You don’t understand," he whispered.

"Then explain," Hale said.

The silence stretched until Nusrat broke it with a shuddering breath. "Sameer has always been… sensitive. Lights flickered when he cried as a baby. We thought faulty wiring."

Kwan exchanged a look with Hale - classic early signs.

"Were you there when he went through Activation?" Hale asked.

Rashid sighed. "Years ago. He was twelve. We had to hide him in the shed. We told our neighbors he had malaria."

Nusrat nodded, voice hushed. "We prayed so much. Our neighbor Mrs. Patel brought us goat milk. We burned incense to hide the faint, metallic tang coming from his cocoon. No one suspected."

"How did he handle it?" Kwan asked.

Rashid grimaced. "Not well. He was often on edge. Then he got quiet. Wouldn’t eat, wouldn't leave his bed. We thought he was dying."

"But he survived." Kwan smiled reassuringly.

Nusrat nodded. "And seemed better after. Happier. We hoped that was the end of it."

Hale leaned against the sofa. "What changed?"

"One day," Nusrat said, "after his final exams, Sameer didn't come home from the mosque."

"He was outside," Rashid added, "in the rain. Nusrat took him to the hospital. That was when we learned..."

Hale looked up from his notepad. "What?"

Rashid glanced at his wife and turned away. Nusrat cleared her throat. "It wasn't a cold. He'd had an... episode. During his evening Illumination prayer."

The Alis, like most Shahistanis, must have been Nooriyanis, Hale realized. Daily Illumination prayers, the Kitab-al-Noor on the side table.

"An episode?" Kwan repeated.

"Yes," Nusrat said. "In his head. He felt like the One Light was going to destroy him. Like a voice was telling him to… embrace darkness."

Kwan's pulse quickened. "And what happened?"

"The floor in the Misbahiyya had cracked," Rashid sounded haunted. "The Light-Keeper said the foundation shifted, but Sameer was convinced it was his fault."

"And was it?" Kwan asked.

Nusrat and Rashid exchanged pained glances. "He is our son," Nusrat said finally.

"You should've come to the authorities," Hale replied. "There are people who can help."

"Yes," Nusrat answered. "But it's different for us. For Shahistanis. We don't want our family to become a news story. To be treated as freaks because we are Nooriyanis."

"The last few days," Rashid murmured, "it's like he's regressed. All the old fears, the voices… they are back."

Hale looked past the hall to a half-open door. "May we see Sameer's room?"

Nusrat led them to a small room containing a bed, a desk piled with cricket magazines, and a closet. As Hale and Kwan began to search, Rashid cleared his throat. "Please. We are not thieves."

"Just checking for items with strong psychometric residue," Hale answered.

"Leave it, Rashid," Nusrat whispered.

The search was quick. Sameer’s life was contained, almost monkish. Hale picked up a cassette, searching for an echo. He found one that vibrated with a faint memory. Reaching out with his tactile net, he felt the cassette answer back.

A tinny, synthesized beat pulsed against his fingertips, a phantom thrumming that grew into a full-blown disco rhythm. The song was infectiously upbeat, but for Sameer, it was an anesthetic. Hale felt the boy’s desperate need to let the beat hammer away his anxieties. He saw flashes: Rashid Ali, face etched with worry, poring over ledgers on the kitchen table. A wave of Sameer’s inadequacy washed over Hale - the crushing weight of being unable to help.

Then, a sharper sting: a schoolyard buzzed with the excitement of Jashn. Other Shahistani boys in crisp, new nurqamises, their laughter echoing. And Sameer, standing apart, acutely aware of his own clothes - the same ones from last year, and the year before. He felt the heat of their mocking gazes, heard their whispered taunts about a father who couldn't even provide new attire for the festival. Three years of this quiet, public humiliation. The disco song was a shield.

Hale pulled back, the phantom music fading. He placed the cassette back.

"He listened to this a lot," Hale said, his voice flat. "To forget."

Kwan raised an eyebrow. "Forget what?"

"His father's money troubles. Feeling like he wasn't doing enough to help." Hale paused, glancing at Rashid. "And… being picked on by other kids from your community."

Nusrat’s hand flew to her mouth. "He never told us."

"It was about Jashn," Hale continued. "About not having new clothes. For three years."

Rashid flinched as if struck. "My boy… my poor boy. I didn't know. He never said a word. Always smiling, 'It's fine, Abbu, these are still good.'" He sank onto the sofa, covering his face with trembling hands as Nusrat put a comforting arm around his shaking shoulders.

Kwan looked at Hale. "So, the shame… it wasn't just about his father being humiliated. It was older."

"Looks like it," Hale agreed. "A lot of pent-up frustration. The outburst wasn't just reactive. It was an explosion." He surveyed the small room, seeing it now as a pressure cooker. "We need to find him before that pressure builds again."

"He won't go far," Nusrat murmured, her voice thick with tears. "This is his home."

"I hope you're right, Mrs. Ali," Hale said.

After saying their goodbyes, they stepped back out into the cool morning. A few curtains twitched in the row of houses. Hale glanced up and down the road, at the way the houses stood shoulder-to-shoulder, their windows like watching eyes. The way they seemed to hold each other together. It was how things had been when his parents were still alive. When their little family had still felt whole.

He turned and walked towards his car.

***

The drive back to their temporary lodgings was short. Their hotel, “The Imperial Arms,” was a red-brick Victorian pile that had clearly seen grander days. A harried-looking man in a too-small waistcoat handed over keys attached to weighty brass fobs. "No lift," he announced, gesturing vaguely towards a narrow, creaking staircase. "Mind the third step on the second landing."

Hale’s room on the third floor was compact. Faded rose wallpaper seemed to absorb what little light filtered through the window, which offered a view of a grimy brick alleyway. Instead of a thermostat, a chunky radiator sat cold beneath the sill. A small electric kettle sat on a tray with tea bags, instant coffee, and little plastic tubs of UHT milk. The en-suite was a marvel of tight engineering, with a sink boasting separate taps for hot and cold and a shower with a pull-cord switch hanging like a forgotten noose.

Kwan poked his head in, sling still prominent. "Charming, ain't it? Bet the telly still takes coins."

Hale nodded towards the small, boxy set perched in the corner. "I'll leave a scathing review."

"I'll be in the bar," Kwan chuckled. "I'll buy you a pint."

"Maybe later," Hale said.

After Kwan left, Hale settled in with a book of short stories by the Shahistani author Adnan Hasan Ahmed. He'd just started a new story when a soft knock came at the door.

"It's open," he called.

Kwan appeared with two glasses of dark amber liquid. "It's later."

Hale closed his book. "What is it?"

"Mead," Kwan answered. "Local stuff."

Hale accepted a glass. It smelled rich and fruity. He took a tentative sip. "It's definitely strong."

They sat in companionable silence for a while, listening to the muffled sounds of traffic. Finally, Kwan broke the quiet. "So, that's it? We just wait?"

"We wait for him to make a mistake," Hale said.

Kwan stared up at the ceiling. "I was in his head, Kwan," Hale said, his voice low and intense. "That psychometric read… it wasn't just old shame. It's a feedback loop. His fear, his inadequacy, his power - it’s all feeding itself. Every hour he’s out there, the pressure builds. We saw what he did at the bus station. If he feels truly cornered, we won't be looking at cracked pavement. The clock is ticking."

Kwan pushed himself up from the bed, wincing. The easy camaraderie had evaporated. "You make him sound like a bomb. He’s a kid, Hale. A kid cracking under a pressure you and I can’t imagine." He paced the small space, his good hand clenching. "I saw his face at the station when those cuffs came out. That was terror. Maybe if I’d handled it differently, if I hadn't let the locals spook him… That was on me."

"Empathy is a valuable tool, Kwan, but it can't be our only guide," Hale countered, his voice hardening. "Understanding his motives doesn't negate the danger. He’s an uncontrolled Super with a psychological profile that screams instability. Our responsibility is to the public who could get caught in the crossfire of his next 'episode'."

"So we just write him off?" Kwan’s voice rose. "Give him a chance. A real one. Let me try to reach him."

"And say what? That you understand?"

"It's about trust, Hale," Kwan shot back, gesturing between them. "Look at us. You think his parents saw two government agents? They saw a white man in a suit and… me. Sameer will see the same thing. Maybe that’s enough to get him to listen."

"And if it isn't? Your shared experience won't stop a telekinetic blast." Hale stood, picking up his book to end the conversation. "We will pursue peaceful avenues. But don't delude yourself. If he forces our hand, we will act. That’s the job."

Kwan sighed, a sound heavy with resignation. "Fine, Hale. Your way. Just… try not to enjoy it if it comes to that." He turned and walked out, his shoulder slumped, leaving Hale alone with the faded roses and the weight of command.

Hale stared at the closed door, the words of Adnan Hasan Ahmed blurring on the page. The old hotel creaked around him. He heard the faint, mournful cry of a train whistle from somewhere beyond the city's glow, a lonely sound that seemed to echo the isolation of their quarry. He rubbed his temples. This wasn’t getting any easier.

Exhaustion finally frayed the edges of his vigilance. He lay down on the mattress, the cheap cotton sheets cool against his skin. Sleep, when it came, was shallow and uneasy.

The shrill ring of the bedside telephone ripped through the darkness. He was moving before he was fully awake, instinct taking over, grabbing the receiver. His heart was a cold, hard knot in his chest. The illuminated dial of his watch read 2:07 AM.

"Hale."

"Hale, it’s Reid. We have a confirmed sighting. The kid’s at the Willesden Junction railway yard. Local police have units en route to establish a perimeter, but they're holding back pending your arrival. Knopff and I are about to leave."

Willesden Junction. A sprawling nexus of tracks and sidings. A cold, impersonal labyrinth. "Understood," Hale said, already swinging his legs out of bed. "ETA twenty minutes. Tell local PD to maintain visual but not engage. I repeat, do not engage." He hung up, the click echoing in the sudden silence.

The game was on again.

***