No Good Brother

NO GOOD BROTHER
Tyler Keevil

Copyright

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 HarperCollinsPublishers

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

Published by HarperCollinsPublishers 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 HarperCollinsPublishers 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 © HarperCollinsPublishers 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

Praise for No Good Brother:

‘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

Dedication

For my brother

Epigraph

‘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

Chapter One

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.

Jake climbed out of the truck. He was wearing torn jeans and a bomber jacket and his red bandana. He came to the fence that separates the lot from the docks and leaned on it, his fingers hooked like talons between the chain-links. He spotted me and deliberately rattled the fence, like an ape in a cage. He was grinning like an ape, too.

Sugar asked, ‘He your friend?’

‘My brother.’

By then the union guys had manoeuvred the Transvac along our port side, but were still fiddling with the controls. I waved to get Albert’s attention.

‘Give me a minute, Albert?’

‘A minute is all you got.’

I vaulted the gunnel and landed clumsily on the dock, turning my right ankle but not badly. I made my way around the boatyard and up the gangway that connects the docks to the wharf. The water beneath reflected the cannery, but the image was all broken up by the dribbles of rain riddling the surface.

Jake waited for me at his truck, leaning back against the side, smoking a cigarette. As I came up he smiled. He’d lost one tooth when he was in jail, and still hadn’t bothered to get a cap. His hair was long and greasy and held back by the bandana. The bandana was faded and tatty as hell but it was the one Sandy had given him, years ago, so he would never replace it.

‘You look like a real fisherman, Poncho,’ he said.

‘And you look like an ex-con, Lefty.’

I removed my left work glove and we clasped hands, pulling each other into a hug. Jake and I always shake hands like that – with our left – because he’s left-handed and my right hand is the bad one. Two of the fingers are gone and the other three are all mangled, like the legs of a crab crushed under a rock. Whenever I shake hands with anyone else it’s always awkward, because even left-handed guys have learned to shake with their right.

‘You forgiven me for sucker punching you?’ he asked.

‘Let’s forget it.’

‘Close enough for me.’

‘How’d you know to come?’

‘Stopped by the cannery last week. They said your boat was due back this morning.’

I looked over at the boat. Albert was watching us from the wheelhouse, arms folded over his chest like a sentry. The union guys were passing the Transvac hose to Sugar.

‘We’re just about to empty the holds,’ I said.

‘What time do you get off tonight?’

‘We don’t get shore leave until the weekend.’

‘I need to talk to you before then.’

‘About what?’

He flicked his cigarette to the ground, between us, and twisted it out with his boot. ‘I just need to talk to you is all. Can’t you get away tonight?’

‘It’s boat policy. Nobody leaves till the boat’s stripped down. If Albert lets me go, the other guys will be choked.’

‘So sneak away.’

‘I share a cabin with the other deckhands.’

‘Ah, shit.’ He exhaled his last drag, which he’d been holding in. ‘Well, damn – I’ll be gone by this weekend.’

‘Where you going?’

‘That’s what I want to talk to you about.’

From the boat, Albert hollered to me across the water: ‘Timothy!’

He held out his hands, palm up, as if to ask what was going on. I waved.

‘Timothy?’ Jake said. ‘What is he, your dad?’

‘I got to go, man.’

‘Ask him. Tell him it’s important. You got wheels?’

‘Not any more.’

‘Walk down to the Firehall and meet me there, then.’

‘What the hell for?’

Jake just looked at me. He looked at me for a long time.

‘Oh,’ is all I said.

‘You forgot.’

‘No I didn’t.’

‘Goddamn liar.’

I started backing away. ‘Look, I’ll try to come, okay?’

‘Whatever. I’ll be there tonight, with or without you.’

He opened the door to his truck, and slid back behind the wheel.

I said, ‘If I can’t make it, I’ll call you.’

‘If you can’t make it, don’t bother.’

He slammed the door and gunned the engine. As I turned back towards the gangway I heard him peeling out, spinning his wheels as he left the lot.

On the Western Lady, Albert had come down from the wheelhouse and was helping Sugar lower the Transvac hose into the hold. I hopped onto a bollard and used that as a stepladder to clamber back over the gunnel of the Lady.

‘I got this, Albert,’ I said.

‘You sure? Because I can take over if you want to play with your friend.’

‘No, no – it’s all good.’

He grunted and stepped aside. The hose was about a foot in diameter and made of ribbed plastic. I positioned it so that the mouth dipped six inches into the soup of herring, then nodded at Sugar. He began blasting away with the water and we signalled for the dock workers to fire up the pump. The hose started to buck in my arms, wiggling amid the herring and snorting them up like the long nose of an anteater. The dark bodies flashed through the funnel, on their way to the sorter and the bins and a better place.

At around five we clocked off. Sugar went to clean himself up in the cannery washrooms, but I needed to talk to Albert. I took off my slicker and gloves and moseyed on into the galley. Evelyn, Albert’s wife, was standing at the stove, stirring something in a steel pot. She was a big lady, low-built and wide-hipped, and when we set our nets she directed us on deck while Albert navigated. She was pretty much the second-in-command on the Lady. Albert, he liked to joke that she was actually the head honcho, the big chief.

‘Smells good, Evelyn.’

‘You don’t.’

‘I know it.’ Even without the slicker, I still stank of herring. ‘What you got on there?’

‘Beef stew, and an apple pie.’

‘Hot damn.’

‘You mean hot darn.’ She pointed at me with her spoon. ‘Tracy’s coming for dinner.’

Tracy was their youngest daughter. She’d worked on the boat when I first started but had taken this season off to train for her sea captain’s certificate.

I said, ‘She mentioned something about that.’

‘She say anything else?’

‘What else might she have said?’

Evelyn smiled, and shook her head. ‘Just something we been talking about.’

She sounded sly, secretive, and raised a spoon of stew to give it a taste. She smacked her tongue theatrically, making it clear she intended to leave me wondering.

‘Say,’ I said, as if it had just occurred to me. ‘Is Albert about?’

‘Down in the engine room.’

‘Still at it.’

‘Always.’

I kicked off my boots and headed that way, down the short hall between the two cabins where we slept – one for Albert and Evelyn, one for us grunts – and down a short stepladder. The engine room was divided from the rest of the boat by a hatch, which was ajar. I pushed it open. Inside it was cramped and low and you had to hunch over as you walked to avoid cracking your head. Albert was lying on his back, shining a flashlight at the underside of some pipework.

‘Problems, Captain?’

‘Nothing that ain’t fixable. Leaking a bit of coolant.’

I hunkered down beside him, squatting on my haunches, and watched him work for a bit. He reached for a wrench lying next to him, fitted it to a nut on one of the pipes, and gave it a twist. He held his palm beneath the joint, waiting to see if that had done the trick.

‘Need a hand?’ I asked.

‘I’ll tell you when you get around to asking whatever it is you want to ask.’

‘Okay, then.’ I sat for a time, staring at the joint rather than Albert. ‘That fellow in the truck today – that was my brother.’

‘The troublemaker.’

‘He ain’t all that bad.’

‘Thought he did time in Ferndale.’

‘That was a while back.’

‘And?’

There was an oil rag on the floor at my feet. I picked that up and began wrapping it around my bad hand, for no real reason.

‘He’s only in town for a day, and wants to see me tonight.’

‘You don’t get shore leave till Saturday.’

‘I know that.’

‘Nobody leaves the boat until she’s in shape.’

‘I know that too.’

Albert shook his head and made a sound, sort of disgusted. At first I thought it was a reaction to what I’d asked, but he held up his hand, showing me the greenish glisten of coolant.

‘Washer must be shot.’

He went to work with his wrench again.

He said, ‘If I let you go, what do I tell the other guys?’

I didn’t have an answer to that, so I didn’t try.

‘Can’t very well let you go and keep them here.’

‘No sir. Reckon not.’

‘But you want me to make an exception, so you can meet your no-good brother.’

‘I told you – it ain’t that he’s no good.’

I said it sharper than I normally would have. It registered. I could tell by the way Albert paused, just for a second, in twisting that nut. Then he kept working it until it came loose, and with his forefinger fished out the old washer. He gave it to me. ‘Pass me another, will you? Should be in the top of the toolbox, front-left compartment.’

I found a new one and handed it over and waited while he fitted it. There was no use negotiating or haggling with him.

He said, ‘We’re having Tracy over for tea and pie.’

‘Evelyn told me.’

‘Did she now?’

‘She was acting pretty mysterious about something.’

He looked at me, and I could tell by the look that he was in on it, whatever it was.

‘It’s important to Evelyn. I suppose you want to skip that, too.’

‘Tracy is working the night shift, so won’t stay late. I could go after.’

He was twisting the nut back on, turning the wrench in swift rotations. On his upper forearm he had this tattoo of a heart, pink and sun-faded, which shifted with each movement.

‘I can’t give you permission to do that, Tim.’

I stared at the oil rag, at my bad hand.

‘I figured that would be the case,’ I said.

‘But if you slip away – say after we’re all down – I might look the other way.’

‘Thanks, Albert. Thanks for that.’

‘I ain’t doing you no favours. If you get caught, or they see you, I’ll come down hard on you just the same.’

He tightened the nut the last few turns, snugging it into place. On the last twist the wrench trembled with tension and the muscles in his forearm flexed. When it was done he nodded, satisfied, as if that had decided it.

Chapter Two

Before dinner, while we waited for Tracy, I hopped on dish duty. I wanted to get a head start, and I suppose make amends in advance for what I intended to do later. So I stood at the sink and scrubbed away at Evelyn’s pots and pans. In the window above the sink I could see the reflection of the others sitting at the galley table behind me, their images transparent and ghost-like. There was Sugar and Albert and Evelyn and Big Ben, Sugar’s nephew: a quiet kid with a buzz cut and a scar across his nose, who’d joined the crew the same season as me. The four of them were talking about hockey and listening to Gram Parsons. It was one of Albert’s scratchy old cassettes, and the ragged vocals always reminded me of Jake, the way Jake used to sing.

Evelyn still hadn’t said any more about her little secret. She’d told me I had to wait till Tracy got there. Since I was at the window I spotted her first: clambering over the port-side gunnel. Like her mother she was strong and solidly built and at ease on the boats and water. When she straightened up she saw me and smiled, her cheeks burnished red from the cold.

‘Company’s here,’ I said.

Albert got up and hurried to open the door for his daughter, reaching it just as she did.

‘Should have called out,’ he said. ‘Would have helped you aboard.’

‘I’m training to run this boat, Dad. Reckon I can board it myself.’

Big Ben shook her hand and Sugar told him that was no way to greet a lady, then demonstrated by wrapping Tracy up in a bear hug and lifting her right off the ground. He’d known her since she was six years old and could make that kind of thing seem completely natural. I shuffled over to join them, and when it came my turn to greet Tracy I hugged her as well, though with me it was different. I hugged her cautiously, as if she were a cousin or a formal acquaintance. I always worried, hugging her, that it would seem improper in front of Albert.

‘Let’s all sit down,’ Evelyn said.

‘I just got the pots to finish.’

‘Oh, leave the dishes, Tim. We have company.’

We sat around the galley table, pulling up a pair of extra chairs for Tracy and me. Evelyn put on her oven mitts – these mitts in the shape of flippers we got her two seasons back – and brought the stew over to the table, along with homemade buns and a bowl of salad. This was all dished out, plate by plate, and the plates were handed around the table to the person on the end: Sugar, in this case. That was how we did it. Everything we did on the boat had its own ritual, and eating dinner was no different.

As we ate we chatted about the herring season. Tracy had already heard from Evelyn that we’d made our quota, and that the rest of the company had, too. Sugar and Albert shared the licence but operated through Westco in a collective. We told her about where we’d cast our nets that year and some of the stories we’d brought back: the skiff that had run aground and the yahoos on the Western Rider who’d gotten gooned and overslept and nearly missed the fisheries window. We moaned a little about the weather and how hard Albert worked us.

‘Your dad sure gets his money’s worth out of his poor crew,’ Sugar said.

‘Don’t I know it,’ Tracy said.

‘These fellows,’ Albert said, shaking his head, ‘would sleep through a hurricane if I let them. They would sleep through the End of Days.’

After the stew came the pie, and when that was done we got out the cards and played High Chicago for pennies, which was another ritual. Sugar lost quickly, and after declaring bankruptcy he palmed the table-top to push himself up. He’s six-four and two-twenty, and in the close confines of the deckhouse he moved slowly, carefully.

‘You coming for a walk?’ he asked his nephew.

The way he said it wasn’t a question. Big Ben folded his hand and followed his uncle outside. We played a few more rounds and Evelyn made a pot of coffee and we got to talking about payday and the cheques we all had coming our way. Albert was going to install a new furnace in their place out in New West, and Evelyn, she was putting some of her share away for a trip to Palm Springs. But even then I had the feeling that it was all preamble. I was still waiting for whatever it was they were going to spring on me.

‘What about you, Tim?’ Tracy asked. ‘You got any big plans once this taskmaster sets you loose?’

‘Ah, you know me. I ain’t got much imagination.’

‘No raising Cain?’ She elbowed me. ‘No lady friend to buy pretty things for?’

‘Well, there is one.’ Evelyn stopped sipping her tea. They all looked at me, waiting. ‘Old woman by the name of Evelyn,’ I said. ‘Might need a new dishwasher.’

Evelyn got up and slapped me with her flipper mitt.

‘No sir,’ Albert said, playing along. ‘Nobody buys my woman a dishwasher but me!’

The joke ran its course, and as Evelyn settled back down she said, ‘Albert – why don’t you tell Tim. Tell him what we were talking about.’

‘Oh no,’ Tracy said.

Albert frowned at her, and cleared his throat, and then spread out one hand to stare at the fingernails. The cuticles were rimmed with black: a lifetime’s worth of engine oil and grease. He ran his thumbnail beneath the nail on his forefinger, as if removing some. Then he said, ‘You know we normally head up to our cabin in Squamish for a week at the end of season. Well, we’ll be heading up this Saturday, after we finish, and wondered if you wanted to come.’

‘Wow,’ I said, which was all I could think to say. ‘That’s real kind of you.’

‘Our boy Rick will be there, with his kids, and Tracy.’

Tracy was staring into her teacup, as if trying to read the leaves.

‘That would be really something,’ I said.

‘Of course,’ Albert added, ‘if you got other things going on …’

‘No. No I don’t got anything else. The only thing keeping me here would be my mother. If she needs me, I mean. Seeing as I’ve already been away for a while.’

‘Of course, Timothy,’ Evelyn said. ‘You’ve got to look after your family, too.’

‘It would only be for a few days,’ Albert said.

‘That sounds real nice.’

‘Think about it, anyway,’ Evelyn added.

‘I will. I really will.’

She stood up and began to clear the cups, even though mine was only half-finished.

‘Well,’ Tracy said, ‘I better get back. Shift starts in an hour.’

She was working security at a local college, while undertaking her training.

‘I’ll walk you out, if you like.’

The docks were quiet, aside from a few old-timers on one of the boats, drinking to celebrate the end of season, their voices and laughter echoing across the water. Tracy and I walked in silence until we crossed the gangway. Then she said, ‘I’m sorry about that. They like to play matchmaker.’

‘It’s a nice idea.’

‘Nice is an easy word.’

‘I mean it would be fun.’

‘Well, maybe it would be.’

We reached her vehicle: a classic Jeep that she’d salvaged from the scrap heap, and fixed up. She’d parked in the same spot that Jake had earlier. She unlocked the driver’s door and before she got in I hugged her again. In the dark, away from the others, I could have held onto her longer, and maybe I should have. But it was funny. I still acted the same way.

That night, it wasn’t hard to slip away. I just waited until Sugar and Big Ben were asleep (this was easy to determine because they both snore like bears) and then crept out of the cabin, eased open the galley door, and lowered myself down to the dock. Sneaking off felt shady and dishonest but those were feelings I generally associated with my brother, and any plan of his which involved me.

The Firehall, where we were meeting, is on the corner of Gore and Cordova, just a few blocks away from the Westco plant. It isn’t a firehall any more. It’s an arts centre and performance space now – a fairly well-known one. They produce shows of their own and also put on work by touring theatre and dance companies. The outside still looks like a firehall: worn brownstone walls, glossy red doors, and those high-arched windows.

The night I met Jake, a company called The Dance Collective was performing. The name was spelled in block capitals across the marquee, and on the A-frame board out front a series of posters listed the various dancers and their pieces. I walked cautiously up the wheelchair ramp and stood for a time outside the doors, peering in through the glass.

The place hadn’t changed much. On the left was the box office, and on the right was the bar – a classy-looking affair, with a marble bar top, chrome beer taps, and leather stools. On some of the tables platters of appetizers and hors d’oeuvres had been laid out: smoked salmon and pastries and little vegetable rolls. In the foyer thirty or forty guests – a mix of well-dressed artists, hipsters, and bohemian types – stood chatting and milling about. All of it looked so eerily familiar I felt like a ghost, lurking in the cold and haunting my old life.

I have to admit: I just about turned and walked away.

But my brother was in there, waiting for me. So I went ahead, passing through the glass doors and falling backwards into memory. I knew exactly where to find Jake too: hunched at the bar, ignoring the room and world.

I sat down next to him and he said, ‘So the old man let you loose.’

There were three empty bottles of Molson in front of him and he was already looking a bit belligerent.

‘He said he wouldn’t stop me, if I snuck off.’

‘Better make the most of it.’ He motioned to the bartender, signalling for service. ‘Two more Molson and two shots of Wiser’s.’

‘Only beer, for me,’ I said.

‘Forget that. You just got back from sea, sailor.’

‘I’ll be scrubbing holds at six thirty.’

The bartender – a slim, trim guy with a stud earring – looked at us in a way that made it clear he’d rather be serving anybody else.

‘Do you want the whisky or not?’ he asked.

‘I ordered it, didn’t I?’ Jake said. Then, to me: ‘Get this bartender. I been tipping him big and behaving myself and he still treats me like a dishrag.’

Jake folded a twenty in half and flicked it towards the guy. The bill fluttered in the air like a demented butterfly, before coming to settle in front of the bar taps. The bartender took it reluctantly and smoothed it out before slipping it into his till and pouring the drinks. When the whiskies landed in front of Jake, he nudged one towards me.

‘Drink up,’ he said.

‘I ain’t playing, Jake.’

He shrugged and scooped it up to knock back himself.

‘You been drinking here all night?’ I asked Jake.

‘Hell no. I saw the show.’

I looked towards the stage doors. A few of the dancers were coming out, now. You could tell by the way they dressed – tracksuits or tights and leggings – and also by how they held themselves: that particular upright posture, chins outthrust, heads perfectly level.