The Hush Society Presents...

by Izzy Matias

  With my head high, I walk inside the factory. I can’t believe how fast they let me back here—and this time as a management trainee. I guess it helps that I have experience with them.

  Starting today, I trade stacking cargo boxes for a cubicle.

  Bloody friggin’ brilliant.

  I stare at my hands, think about carpal tunnel and wonder if I’ll ever play music again.

  Once inside the factory, I go straight for orientation and listen to one of the Human Resources lads drone on for the rest of the morning as he briefs me on the training, the rules of the program, and what’s expected of me. One thing good about this training program is the money I get: the most I’ve ever earned. At least I’ll get to save up for Uni and contribute more at home. URadio may be able to match my salary if I go back, but it’s not an option I’m willing to consider right now. I don’t want to have to face the shame of being a failure there, too.

  As my lecturer drones on, my mind wanders. Song lyrics and melodies pop up at the most inconvenient times. I even have a beginning of a song about nine-to-fives before his monotonous voice is replaced with stiff silence. I may have given up on music, but it has a strong hold on me.

  "You’re on break for forty-five minutes and then we turn you over to your supervisor," the lecturer says.

  "Sure, thanks," I reply and head out to the park to eat what mum prepared for me: a turkey sarnie and crisps.

  After exhausting all forty-five minutes, I’m introduced to my supervisor—a bulky lad whose office reeks of pine air freshener to combat the smell of sawdust, wood, and body odour that permeates our workplace. He explains the training module: half of the day is for lectures and the other half is dedicated to on the job activities—mostly administrative items.

  Five hours later, my mind is mush from the overload of information. My super gave me the management training manual, which is about more than two inches thick. How did I give up on going to Uni, but still have to do revisions?

  I probably look pissed as I wait at the bus stop. I sway a little to the left and right, trying to exert the least effort possible in moving any part of my body. Even if my mind did most of the work, my body is drained of energy. When the bus comes, I plop onto it, thankful for whoever invented chairs, set a mobile alarm for twenty minutes, and drift into a kip.

  I awake to violent shaking. "Oi!"

  My world is a blur and my head is pounding. "Hngg."

  "Oi! Kid!" The voice sounds familiar. "It’s the last stop. Time to get off."

  That alone sends my body into an electric shock. My eyes as wide as they can go. I curse.

  The bus driver guffaws. "Not the first time this has happened to me."

  "My alarm!" I accuse the inanimate object for the inconvenience. My hand flies to the pocket of my trousers. I slide it out. Like me, it’s zonked out.

  The bus driver sees my mobile’s black screen. "Ah, the culprit." He tuts. "Where were you supposed to get off?"

  I tell him my stop and he whistles. "Seven stops ago."

  My face falls. I only have enough cash—which I again had to loan from Mum—to get to and from the factory.

  "The next bus in that direction comes in"—he checks his watch—"six minutes."

  "Thanks," I reply, my shoulders dropping low, like a deflated punching bag.

  There’s no way I’m telling him I’m out of money, but he gives me a strange look as if sizing me up. "Do you need to top up your card?" he asks.

  I nod.

  He opens his wallet and hands me his bus card. "You can have it. Looks like you been in the wars."

  My eyes go round for the second time in a couple of minutes as I stare at his card. "Thank you," I say. "Really."

  "Keep your head up, mate. A bad day only lasts…for a day."

  I want to tell him I believe him, but this is going to be my life until I’m able to save up before I go back to Uni.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  It’s only been a little over a week since I started, but it’s enough for me to know what it’s like to be a deflated punching bag for days in a row.

  Get up. Shower. Get dressed. Brekkie. Bus. Work. Tea. Work. Bus. Dinner. Sleep.

  Tonight, there’s something stirring in my chest. On instinct I reach under my bed. Then I remember I’ve lost both my guitars and slump back on my bed. I huff. I haven’t touched a guitar in almost two weeks, and it’s like a limb is missing.

  Even if I told myself I’d give it up for good, I can’t deny this craving to be reunited with a guitar. It’s not even about performing in front of anyone. It’s just being able to play. I’ve never gone this long without touching a guitar ever since I first picked it up.

  I jump off my bed with newfound zest. I’m off to tell Mum or Dad I’m going out. A lad can only stay cooped up for so long.

  Twenty minutes later, I find myself ringing Eric, standing in front of his door. There’s no point in prolonging this; I need my mates back. I may have pushed my career in music away, but I’m not going to let my pride or bitterness push away my best mates any longer.

  Eric’s mobile goes to voice mail. No one’s answering the door. I ring him again.

  My bones crack and my muscles are like concrete as I stretch. As I complain aloud about my aches and pains, the door opens.

  "Nan, you look horrible!" Eric says.

  "Like utter shite," Benji agrees, beside him.

  At their comments, I know they’ve forgiven me even if they haven’t said it yet. I crack a smile. "Can I come in?"

  "You’ve gone this far for me not to let you in," Eric says.

  "Come to your senses, then?" Benji asks.

  I nod. "Something like that."

  "We’re holding an overdue band meeting," Eric announces as we walk into the basement.

  I gasp at the sight of their new gear. I bet the first thing they did when they got back was replace what was nicked.

  "Wicked, innit?" Benji says and caresses his new guitar.

  "Right," Eric says, looking as serious as he can be. "First things first. Our agenda."

  Benji stifles laughter. As do I.

  "We’re assuming you came to apologise," Eric begins.

  "I came to use your new gear," I say.

  They smile.

  "Well, are you sorry or not for being such a twat?" Eric says.

  "You were a massive arse," Benji puts in.

  Leave it to my best mates. "All right. I know I was," I admit. "I am sorry."

  "Good," Eric says. "Now that’s off the plate…when were you planning to practice with us? In case you forgot, tomorrow’s The Hush Society music festival."

  The music festival! I gasp.

  "You forgot?" Benji asks, amused.

  "Of course not. I thought we weren't playing anymore, what with Cassie’s statement of ‘don’t bothering coming,’ unless I misheard."

  Eric gives me an incredulous look like I’ve just said I hate The Gramophones.

  "We tried practicing without you, but it didn’t feel right," Benji says. "Eric even tried to sing."

  "I was terrible," he says.

  "We can’t play without you."

  After everything I’ve done, they still want to play music with me. I came to ask them if they wanted to go to a pub and muck about. Part of me was hoping we’d maybe do a jam session again, but that was it.

  "I don’t even have enough cash to buy a guitar," I say. It’s a pathetic excuse, but I’m ashamed of my outburst at Willowfields and I’m not sure what else to say. "How was I supposed to practice?"

  "Use one of my old ones, then," Eric proposes, pointing to his collection of guitars hanging on the wall.

  "You made a mistake, a massive one, but you can still sort it out," Benji says. "It’s never too late."

  I stare at them, torn at what I want and what I should do. I said I’d give up music for good because it brings out the worst in me…but it also brings out my best.

  "I can’t do this again," I say finally.

&nbs
p; "Bull!" Eric says. "Why’d you come here, then?"

  "Come on, mate," Benji says. "Play for the music festival at least and then tell us if you still want to be in our band."

  "You both are brilliant musicians. But you saw what does to me. Don’t let me drag you down."

  "What’s one more gig if you’re really quitting then?" Benji rationalises.

  They’re asking me to go down this road again. To risk it once more. And deep down, I know I owe it to them to do at least that. They could have kicked me out for good—like all my band mates before them—but here they are. Asking me to come back.

  "I made a total mess of everything. I’m not putting you lot through that again."

  "C’mon. It’s been the three of us since we were little," Eric says.

  I laugh at this, but shake my head. "I don’t know, mate."

  "Then at least jam with us now," Benji says, holding out his new guitar to me. "If part of this is about not wanting to see Cassie, you should still go. Sort things out with her. She’s a mess. You’re a mess. Be a gigantic mess together."

  I look at him in surrender.

  "Come on. You came here for the music. At least give in to it." Eric smiles from behind his drum throne already counting down with his sticks.

  I take Benji’s guitar. And as soon as I play the opening notes, it is as if the last two weeks have evaporated. All we have is now. This pulse. This beat. This rhythm.

  I miss my best mates.

  I miss music.

  We don’t vocalise what song we want to play, but it’s as if we’re acting on instinct and can read each other with our instruments.

  Why did I let my insecurities get the best of me?

  I glance back at them. They’re both off in their zones: Benji moshes as hard as he can with a guitar and Eric head bangs to the intensity of his beats. There is nothing like playing music with my best mates, but I must learn to not let the kraken get the best of me.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Twelve hours of sleep isn’t enough to peel me off my bed. My eyelids are as heavy as ever. I don’t want to move.

  Tamara barges in my room—we’ve been doing this to each other since we could walk. "Time to celebrate!"

  I grunt.

  "Come on. We’ll be off to the pub later on to get massively pissed! I’ve just finished a major exam and you’ve survived your first two weeks at work."

  "I think I’m dead," I say to my pillow. "Plastered to my bed."

  "Your song-writing abilities have not faltered."

  I grunt again and go back to sleep. I’m completely knackered.

  When I wake, I glance at the CDs and vinyl records on my table—untouched from the day I left. Even my Stephen King novels have gathered dust. I look away. Yesterday was incredible—playing music with my mates again—but I have to stick to what I said. I ain’t gonna give the monsters an opportunity to unleash itself again.

  Today is the music festival in Manchester. Benji and Eric have been pestering me non-stop this morning even to the point of telling me what time they were meeting up at the station and what time the train leaves. They think I’m going to change my mind.

  Ha.

  I want to sleep all day, so at least I won’t have to think about missing out on the benefit gig in Manchester or Callum Ford talking about Ear for Music.

  I only get up when my stomach cramps from hunger. Once I’ve devoured to my stomach’s content, I go back to bed.

  Dad walks in my room looking distressed.

  "What’s the matter?" I ask, getting up. "Is it Mum? Tamara? Timmy?"

  "Heavens, no!" he says and then looks at me. It’s as if he sees me for the first time in days. "You look horrible."

  We laugh at this.

  "What’s it to you?" I mimic Tamara, and we laugh again. It feels good to laugh like this, but it’s fleeting.

  "Aren’t you supposed to be in Manchester playing that gig?" Dad asks.

  My jaw drops—literally drops. I almost say "bull" but can’t because it’s rude to do so.

  But almost.

  "How…" I say, unable to finish my sentence.

  How did he know about the festival?

  "Timmy," Dad explains, as if it’s no big deal. But it is.

  "Weren’t you the one totally against this whole music thing?" I ask in disbelief.

  Dad sighs. "Son, I was wrong."

  My jaw drops again. Dad admitting he’s wrong is massive.

  "I thought this morning you were having a slow start. I can only imagine how knackered you must be, but when I saw that you had no plans of getting out of this room…it’s been two weeks since you got back. It’s not like you to stay home. I called Benji and he told me you weren’t going despite them telling you to." He looks me right in the eye. "You’re finishing what you started, whether or not you’re scared because of the mistakes you made."

  I shake my head. Dad never lets me off the hook, especially when I muck about.

  "I’m not letting you abandon your best mates when they need you most. We have tickets to Manchester to see your show, do you know that?"

  I nod. "Tamara told me."

  "It’d be such a waste. Even some bloody lad called Callum Ford’s been talking about your band on the radio."

  "Bull!" I say out of surprise. "Sorry."

  "Isn’t he one of those lads from your favourite band, The Gramercy?"

  "Dad, it’s The Gramophones," I correct. "Where did you hear this?"

  Dad shows me his mobile: The screen’s on URadio’s website.

  "Since when do you listen to URadio?"

  "Since you were a DJ." He shrugs, as if trying to downplay that he’s been listening to me all this time. "They’re one of the stations that play your band’s music."

  I recall the first time I heard them play one of our songs on the radio. It was glorious.

  Dad presses play before I can pry any further. Judy and Nathan banter on a bit before they go wild with excitement as they introduce their special guest Callum Ford. How did they get an interview with him?

  First Callum talks about their comeback and their performance at Willowfields Music Festival—I cringe during this part. Halfway through the eighth minute, that’s when I hear it.

  "And we’re back, bitches!" Nathan says.

  Judy chastises him for cursing on air.

  I laugh.

  "We are live from Heaton Park in Manchester covering The Hush Society Presents, a benefit music festival that celebrates the end of their nationwide summer tour."

  "The proceeds of today’s show goes to fund a non-profit organisation called Ear for Music—a program to help budding musicians," Judy says. "In case you’ve just tuned in, we’d been swapping new music with Callum during the break and his choices are quite the stuff you’d like to keep your ears sharp with."

  Callum laughs in the background.

  "One notable music recommendation," she continues, "is a band whose lead singer was a former URadio DJ!"

  "No way," Callum says. "Cameron was a DJ?"

  I curse at the incredulity.

  "So!" Judy continues, "there’s this new indie band called The Fortunate Only. One of the members is Cameron Evans. Yes, URadio’s Cameron Evans. If you’ve been listening to us for the past year, you’d know he was one of our DJs."

  "He’s super cool, and I’m not saying that ‘cause I’m biased," Nate says. "Okay, I may be biased."

  Callum and Judy crack up. I look up at Dad, who grins ear to ear and I can’t help but smile.

  "I, on the other hand, screen our music selection with more objectivity than others," Judy says, giving the words right back to Nate. "But I love their sound—not just because I know this band personally—but Callum seems to think so, too."

  I curse again, still in disbelief. "No way!" Part of me knew that Callum liked our music judging by his reaction during our jam session at Willowfields, but to have him say it on radio is a whole other level.

  "Judy’s right. I heard his s
ingle on your station, and then, had an opportunity to play a few songs—a short jam session—with him and his mates at Willowfields. They’re definitely talented. I’m excited to see them grow."

  Judy squeals and Nate cheers on. "They jammed with you?" Judy repeats. "I can’t believe he hasn’t told us about it."

  "It’s amazing how they use music to help others," Callum says. "And that they, together with a few people from The Hush Society, are starting a non-profit centred around this sort of thing. More bands need to use their music as an outlet for positivity. If you’re in Manchester today, they’ll be performing tonight at the festival in Heaton Park."

  "That’s right," Nate confirms.

  "We haven’t seen them yet." Judy says. I wonder if Nate and Judy know what’s going on. I haven’t been in touch with anyone since I got back to Beverley.

  Dad clicks the pause button. "Are you going to play or what?"

  #

  It’s been half an hour according to the clock on the wall. Still no sign of Benji or Eric. In my excitement, I left my mobile at home. So I have no way of contacting my mates to let them know I’m here, or that they should bring their gear because we are playing the benefit gig.

  I am a fool.

  A massive fool.

  I let my envy and resentment make me a narrow-sighted, negative git.

  The only item I have in my hands is the ticket to Manchester that leaves in twenty-one minutes. I’ve gone around the train station twice and still no sign of them.

  Seventeen minutes.

  "Cameron?" Benji’s voice booms before I spot them.

  "The wanker changed his mind," Eric says, running to me. "I knew it!"

  I jump up and meet them halfway. "I am a right foul git with an ego the size of the moon," I say. Eric crashes into me and jumps up and down.

  "The galaxy," Eric says. Benji rolls his eyes. "Apology accepted."

  "Glad to have you back, mate." Benji pats my shoulder.

  "Tonight might have been our last gig, but I only want it to be the continuation of The Fortunate Only," I say. "Will you lads still play with me?"