The Hush Society Presents...

by Izzy Matias

  THE HUSH SOCIETY PRESENTS…

  A novel by Izzy Matias

  Copyright © 2021 by Isabel (Izzy) R. Matias

  Cover art by Lydhia Marie

  This is a work of fiction. Any names or characters, businesses or places, events or incidents, are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Content warnings

  Here is a list of content warnings or trigger warnings, so that you are informed of the inclusion of these topics in the book and can choose if you would like to proceed with reading it: alcohol, anxiety, divorce, eating disorders, homelessness, offensive language and panic attacks.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Tonight’s stage is the city of Birmingham. I imagine we’re in a music video: three best mates roaming the alleys amid the light rain. It’s as if we’re on a big adventure. And in a sense, we are.

  Eric, Benji and I are on a quest to find an offbeat track. A fusion joint, a hole-in-the-wall, or a hidden pub with a live act perhaps. Who knows? That’s the best part about wandering. You allow the universe to surprise you. You never know when you’ll stumble upon your great perhaps.

  Streetlights glimmer around us and paint the damp cement structures in a vintage-looking, dreamy hue. I’ve got candy-pop guitar plucking and an 80s-inspired piano riff on loop. My fingers strike an imaginary drum kit. One Night Only’s "Can You Feel It" plays in my head. They sing about their dreams within reach, and at that moment it seems as if mine are, too.

  I let out a small breath. A puff of fog materialises in front of me. I want to hold my arms out and embrace the night.

  We turn down a wider street lined with restaurants, pubs and shops. Our pace quickens as we pass each one. My hands strum to the beat in my head, but my eyes scan the alley, hoping for something different.

  The first to find a place we all agree on gets a free meal. I shake the coins in my pocket. Will they be enough?

  "What about this one?" Benji says with an eyebrow up.

  Behind him is a fusion between modern sushi café and pub, Tokyo Drift, it says in neon pink letters. Eric's weakness is sushi. Aside from Indian food, mine is a great bowl of ramen. Eric picks up a menu illustrated in pop art—it looks as if it's from an American diner—and inspects it. I hover behind him and scan the glossy plastic in his hands. Good food and quality pint. Damn.

  Benji sees our anime eyes, agape mouths, and walks inside. Damn his mystical abilities and strategic thinking. His fingers motion imaginary cash.

  I narrow my eyes. "This isn't fair play."

  "I've simply maximised your weaknesses and turned them into an advantage," Benji says and shrugs.

  "You mean your advantage," I say.

  "Touché!"

  As Eric and I follow Benji inside the glass doors, I notice a black round vinyl sticker. An artsy hand-written script with the words "The Hush Society" is printed on the centre. Is it a band that frequents the place? I imagine a bright-haired duo in vintage clothes crooning a folk pop experimental mix.

  I expect traditional Japanese-inspired interior, but the walls are lined in dark stone: sleek and modern. Black-and-white Sharpie illustrations of Japanese and American food decorate the walls. I smell wasabi, but there’s a strong hint of burgers and fried potatoes wafting in the air.

  The receptionist—our age—welcomes us as we walk in, but I focus on the music that hangs soft in the air: it’s ambient Japanese mixed with a hint of rock. I tap my fingers to the rhythm and turn my attention back to the girl standing behind the shiny black desk in hopes of asking her about the music.

  "American-Japanese fusion, wicked," Eric chats her up. She twirls her hair and he leans in. We’ve only been inside for two minutes and he’s already flirting.

  I sigh.

  Benji adjusts his thick-rimmed glasses, and clears his throat. He’s about to interrupt them, but I don’t wait. Eric takes his time chatting up with girls. I’d rather find out what this fusion joint has in store for us. I leave them to find the bar.

  Someone has to get things done.

  The place is brimming with people. My celebration should have been over the moment my relatives and close mates left my house, but when the night calls for an adventure I’m not one to refuse.

  After I grab an ice-cold pint, I scan the area for a free table. At the back of the restaurant, near the kitchen, is the only available one: a love booth. It’ll have to do. Last one to get here pulls a chair. I glance back at the three of them. I catch Benji’s eye and wave him over with my free hand. His annoyance disappears and he leaves Eric, who’s still chatting it up, to fend for himself. My fingers resume tapping to the music.

  "Think he noticed you left him?" I ask.

  "Naw," Benji says, a pint in tow. "He’ll catch on after he’s sure he can ring her."

  "How on earth do you find these kinds of places?"

  "Excellent instinct."

  "Or you have a secret food app you’re not sharing with us."

  Benji shrugs, but his smile tells me I'm onto something.

  "The only thing that’s missing is a live act," I say. "The night isn’t complete without good tunes."

  "You always have one in your head anyway."

  "Ha."

  "So, what are your plans for the summer?" Benji asks in his deep, soothing tone.

  "You mean the summer before I slave away at revisions and start uni?" I scoff. "Well, recording a demo with Lewis is out of the question."

  Now that the distraction—the celebration earlier—is over, I have to face the music. How ironic. What music is there left when my fifth attempt at a garage project—an indie folk duo—has once again hashed?

  "Lewis pulled the plug again?" Benji gasps.

  I nod. "He says this time it’s for good."

  Lewis reasoned that he has to prioritise other things in life—like making a proper living in our town Beverley. Complete bullocks.

  "I'm absolutely gutted," I say and neck down more than half of my pint. My chest begins to tingle with warmth, but it’s still not enough to take the tightness away. "I can’t believe he did this to me while I was doing my A-levels."

  "C’mon, mate, you seriously wanna go down that road, tonight of all nights?"

  He’s right, of course. I should be having a good time with my best friends. I should be celebrating because I’ve finally finished my A-levels, but I can’t help it. My mind keeps going back to that afternoon with Lewis.

  "It’s not like I want to," I grumble.

  "He has been a dodgy lad from the beginning." Benji takes a swig from his pint.

  The worst part is I quit my punk band with Elliot a week ago. Two projects gone in a week. A new record.

  I picture the tightness in Dad’s jutted chin—one of the few things we have in common—and hear him say I-told-you-so.

  The metallic taste in my mouth won’t go away, even as I gulp down more of my drink.

  "Well…you're not the only one." Benji strokes his grizzly beard. I raise an eyebrow, but let him tell me more. "I quit my band."

  "You what?" Eric's voice cuts in out of nowhere.

  "Why?" I ask Benji. His metal progressive band was doing well. "You’d be throwing all your hard work away. You lads have been together for more than five years. Five years tops the longest relationship any of us has been in."

  "They were treating me like utter shite," Benji says and necks down more of his drink. "Their heads blew up. They treated me as an inferior…calling me names, disregarding my opinions. It’s as if I weren’t part of the band anymore."

  "I knew you guys were clashing from time to time, but I didn't know it was that bad," I say. He never told us they were belittling him. "Sorry t
o hear that, mate."

  "Those gits." Eric chimes in. "If it’s any consolation, From Bones to Ashes are going to play one last show before disbanding as well."

  I almost choke on my drink.

  "Would you look at that." Benji cracks a smile. "We’re all on the same boat for once."

  We haven't all been without a band at the same time ever before.

  "To the unfortunate only!" Eric raises his glass.

  "Don’t slight one of my favourite lines," Benji calls him out.

  Eric rolls his eyes. We clink our glasses—a sort of pact that we’re in this together—and neck down the last of our pints.

  "So, mission accomplished?" I ask Eric, spotting red ink on his skin.

  "Hells yeah!" He shows us his arm. A number is scribbled on it.

  "You couldn't have just asked her to key it in your mobile like a normal person?" Benji raises his eyebrow.

  "Mate, you’re obsessed with technology," Eric says as he pretends to scan the menu.

  "Get on with the digital age," Benji says.

  I sing a modified chorus of Bowling For Soup's "1985" to fit our situation.

  "The digital age takes away opportunities for real interaction. She held my arm, but we haven’t even gone on a date yet." Eric’s smug now.

  "Date hack #374 by Mr. Baker." I laugh. "I’m keeping that on file."

  "It’ll be useful—when you decide to start dating again, that is," Benji quips.

  Bugger.

  "It’s been three months since your Dutch bird dumped you," Eric says. "Three months! Time to get a-moving." He rubs his hands together. There's something mischievous brewing in his mind.

  "I'll ask Amanda to introduce you to her mates," Benji teases.

  "I don’t need help from her," I rebut. "I went on two dates last week."

  A blonde waitress approaches our table.

  Hallelujah!

  I don’t want to talk about how I haven’t been dating much since Amelie left.

  I’m not over her, but at least I’ve been seizing the moment. I ask out girls I find pretty, but it’s music that never lets me down. Never tells me I’m not good enough.

  "Excuse me," our waitress says. "You guys ready to order?"

  Eric gets a spicy tuna and two New York maki rolls, Benji a mushroom-tofu burger and I, of course, go for my glorious bowl of ramen. I’ve never been here before, so I order the house special: Tsukemen. The label on the menu says the noodles and soup are in two separate bowls. Ramen with a twist. How bonkers is that?

  Benji’s futuristic two-second mobile alert goes off.

  "This just in: they’ve added Marmont to the line-up at Willowfields!" Benji’s eyes gleam as his calloused hands grip his iPhone.

  Marmont is the closest thing we have to The Gramophones since it’s bassist Callum Ford’s side-project. With his new band, Callum explored a different genre veering away from alternative rock to an indie pop sound.

  "Yes!" I fist-punch the air. We’ve had tickets to Willowfields—one of Britain’s biggest music festival—since pre-sale. We’ve been going ever since we were old enough to.

  "Any chance The Gramophones have come off their hiatus to join , too?" I ask as I stroke my chin.

  The Gramophones—my favourite band—are from Beverley, East Yorkshire like us, but moved to Bristol after Uni. Before their hiatus they were already touring Asia and America. Did I mention they’re only five years older than me? They’re living the dream. The dream, I tell you!

  "I haven’t heard any news." Eric frowns.

  After we’ve devoured our meal whilst debating over our latest musical gems and speculating about secret sets at Willowfields, I head towards the bar for another pint.

  I turn to my left and pass the sleek sushi station. It smells like raw fish, salt, and ginger. As I lean against the bar to order another pint, I notice the dim hallway next to it. I leave my empty glass to check it out.

  There are three doors to choose from: the one at the end is for the staff, so I eliminate that. I go for the first red door, which leads to another hallway. Interesting. To my left, there’s a door with the famous "WC" sign on it.

  The ambient Japanese music is gone. I expect silence, but instead hear live music. It’s heavy on percussion and rough guitars. The closest I can liken it to is alternative rock.

  Where is it coming from?

  I glance around. Nobody else is here.

  I walk further down the hallway. At the end is a staircase leading to the basement. I trudge down, feeling like I'm on a treasure hunt. The lighting's weaker and the temperature lower down here. There's one spotlight hanging above the only—you guessed it—red door, and I spot the same round vinyl sticker that I saw before.

  I'm in a dark, deserted hallway with one measly spotlight. Horror-movie theories jump at me. I grip the cold flat latch and twist it forward.

  Cold air slaps at my face.

  Flippin’ ‘eck!

  My eye's bulge.

  My heart speeds up.

  I want to scream.

  I've entered an alternate universe. The sudden volume shocks my ears; the music is on full-blast.

  There are about fifty people scattered around the basement. Most of them are seated on the floor. Some lean on the walls or hover.

  There's a quartet on the makeshift stage in front of me.

  The percussion and guitars swell towards a cliff. The song sounds like a stripped version of an angsty punk anthem. Damn, they're good. How can music sound so alive in a basement? It's then I notice the walls are covered in black foam. Cement walls have the worst acoustics.

  The lights have been turned off, but colourful neon holiday lights hang around the room. There's a hand-painted banner that reads The Hush Society Presents.

  My atoms start a riot inside of me.

  I rush back upstairs because there is no way Eric and Benji aren't going to want to miss the secret party downstairs.

  I pounce back to our table and find them debating over something minuscule.

  "There's a secret gig in the basement. Right. Now." I vomit the words so fast they sound almost incomprehensible. I repeat myself a second time. They stop mid-argument with their eyes wide. Thank goodness we settled the bill earlier.

  I bounce away, and lead the others on, proud of my discovery. Take that, Benji. I didn't get a free meal, but I've levelled up the night.

  "How I love dark passageways," Benji says halfway down the dim stairway.

  "Are you sure you're not leading us to our doom?" Eric asks.

  "Have I ever?" I reply.

  "Do you really want me to answer that?" Benji's voice is irritated.

  I ignore them and dive headfirst into a sea of sound.

  CHAPTER TWO

  There is a different musician on stage. Gone are the lads dressed in black. They hover by the side, smiling at the girl on stage. How terrifying would it be, to be the only one up there? But she looks comfortable, confident, strumming her ukulele.

  Even if no one is head-banging or dancing, there’s this vibration around me that’s hard to ignore. We are all one, connected by the music.

  I take in the experience the way the French do with their meals: slow and purposeful.

  I shut my eyes and let my ears magnify the energy around me. Her voice quavers as she sings a melancholic melody about struggling to be her own person. Her vocal tone reminds me of Ellie Goulding. I open my eyes as she brushes her pink hair, flashes me a weak smile, and then belts out the bridge.

  "This is wicked," Eric whispers beside me.

  I turn to see him and Benji with stupefied looks. "What’d I tell you?" I say, smug. "Still think I’ve led you to the pit of doom?"

  "Way better than becoming a wizard," Benji answers, referring to one of the video games we play.

  "Shush." Eric covers both our mouths. "I want to listen to the music."

  I chuckle as he bounces up and down with excitement.

  Eric, Benji and I stand quiet until the end of the se
t when the silent crowd bursts into whistles and loud applause.

  "Thank you. Don’t forget to show some love to The Psychedelic Glitch. I’m Amber Skye. Up next are The Rioteers."

  More cheers follow. A low voice from the crowd declares his love for Amber, and everyone erupts in laughter. It’s as if they all know each other and the lack of a proper stage creates an intimate experience between the performer and listener. My eyes follow Amber, who slaps the arm of one the lads of The Psychedelic Glitch as they burst into laughter.

  The people around us speak in hushed tones and abandon their spots. They roam around and mingle with each other.

  A girl joins Amber and The Psychedelic Glitch. Her mahogany shoulder-length hair with purple highlights emphasises the paleness of her skin. She catches me looking at her deep red lips, and stares back from across the room. It is a mere two seconds, but feels longer. I follow her eyes, which have found their way to Eric and Benji.

  She turns her attention to the next band, which is setting up. It looks like she’s directing them.

  "Imagine the day The Gramophones comes to one of our secret gigs." Hearing someone mention The Gramophones catches my attention. I zero in on a guy with a green Mohawk.

  "They invented the rise of the secret show." A female responds to his wishful thinking. She runs a hand through her dark curly hair.

  I make my way towards the pair situated beside the refreshment table, peeking to see if there's alcohol. "You guys know The Gramophones?" I ask with a hopeful smile.

  "Heck yeah!" the girl replies. "They’re like a beautiful mix of Muse and Foals."

  I’m still amazed when people say they know a band from Beverley. It’s a small town. It’s bands like The Gramophones that give me hope—from a small town to a massive stage. If they were able to do it, so can anyone who works hard enough.

  "Your comparison doesn’t make any sense," Mohawk guy contradicts. "Tell her she’s bonkers."

  "You’re bonkers." I say, but mouth just kidding afterward.

  "Hi, I’m Ella." She holds out her arm covered in gold henna tattoos.

  "Dan," Mohawk guy quips. "You're new."