Tyler Keevil - No Good Brother

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

The Borough Press

An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

Published by HarperCollins Publishers 2018

Tyler Keevil asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

First published by HarperCollins Publishers 2018

Copyright © Tyler Keevil 2018

Excerpt from 'Highway Patrolman' by Bruce Springsteen. Copyright © 1982 Bruce Springsteen (Global Music Rights). Reprinted by permission. International copyright secured. All rights reserved.

Cover design by Claire Ward © HarperCollins Publishers 2018

Cover photographs © Tim Robinson/Arcangel Images (man); Valeriy Shvestsov/Arcangel Images (man with horse mask); Shutterstock.com(all other images)

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books

Source ISBN: 9780008228880

Ebook Edition © November 2017 ISBN: 9780008228903

Version: 2018-10-16

‘Keevil’s writing is unmissable . . . quite simply a brilliant writer’

Viv Groskop, author of The Anna Karenina Fix

‘ No Good Brother is a paean to brotherly loyalty and a meditation on the things we can change and the things we must learn to love regardless. It is also the funniest and most exciting book I’ve read in years. A grand adventure in the spirit of Mark Twain, it is reckless and wild and beautiful, like something dreamed up by Cormac McCarthy and Hunter S Thompson on a drunken camping trip. It’s as big and as perfect as the prairie sky’

D.D. Johnston, author of Peace, Love & Petrol Bombs

‘A tender and at turns thrilling novel about grief and the way it seeps unshakably into the lives of the living. Keevil’s storytelling is both elegant and meaty and his prose stunning as per; I could almost taste the bitter sea air of Vancouver’s North Shore’

Rachel Trezise, author of Fresh Apples

‘Quite a story. Keevil’s prose proceeds with the laconic madness of a patient horse, and the same ability to buck and kick’

Cynan Jones, author of The Dig

For my brother

‘For I know that in me, that is,

in my flesh, dwelleth no good thing.’

Romans 7:18a

‘Man turns his back on his family,

well he just ain’t no good.’

Bruce Springsteen

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Praise for No Good Brother

Dedication

Epigraph

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Also by Tyler Keevil

About the Publisher

The end of this story is pretty well known, since people wound up getting killed and the trials were in the news. My brother Jake was portrayed in a lot of different ways. Some said he was just a patsy who had gotten caught up in the scheme of these upstart gangsters. Others said he did it for the money. Then there were the ones who actually believed he was an activist of some sort, or a gentleman robber, and I suppose it was easy to sympathize with that on account of what happened to him. But none of those versions is true, or entirely true. I intend to tell it straight and lay out how it all happened, and how I became involved.

It started when Jake showed up at the Westco plant and boatyard, the day we got back from herring season. That was the end of February, last year. A Monday. I was standing at the stern of the Western Lady across from Sugar, this giant Haida guy who shares the licence with Albert, the skipper. Sugar and I were the ones working the hold, but we had to wait around in the drizzling cold for the plant workers to get the hose and Transvac pump in place and line up the sorting bins. They were union guys and on the clock and in no hurry. Albert was up top, directing them from the wheelhouse.

‘Holy Mary,’ he yelled at them, which is about as close to swearing as he gets. ‘You fellows gonna move that thing or just hope it wanders down here by itself?’

‘Yeah, yeah,’ they said.

But they moved a little faster. Albert has that effect on people.

I rubbed my bad hand with my good one. The hand that got crushed hurts something fierce in the cold, even now, years after the accident. Sugar held the water hose with the steel nozzle cradled against his hip, casual as a gunfighter. While we waited, he directed it into the hold and let out a jet-blast of water, churning the fish. The herring, all belly-wet and slickly silver, were packed together in a soupy mix of blood and brine, still flecked with flakes of ice. It was a perfect-looking hold (Albert doesn’t over-fish and only ever takes his quota) but it still made me sad as hell to see. The herring had been in there for forty-eight hours and a lot of them were still half alive, still twitching. They gazed up from the depths of the hull with dull and desperate eyes that had no real understanding of their place or fate. Some of them were so ready to spawn they were already leaking roe: little yellow globules that glistened like fool’s gold.

I heard a vehicle pulling into the lot across the water from where we were moored. I looked over and saw Jake’s truck: a beat-up orange Toyota, twenty years old, with a muffler all shot to hell. I hadn’t seen my brother since Christmas. That hadn’t gone so well. We’d gotten in a fight – first with each other, then with some other guys – and he’d taken off for a while because one of them had been hurt pretty bad. Jake had a record and was worried that the guy might report it, maybe lay an assault charge on him. But nothing ever came of it. I’d talked to Jake on the phone before I headed out for herring season, and he’d gotten some new job that he claimed was legitimate. A cleaning job, was what he’d said.