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
