Endangered Species by Richard Woodman Page B

their heels waiting for a passage back to Liverpool that he found himself thinking of her. Then he almost forgot her; but not entirely, so when John Mackinnon caught sight of the girl at the bus stop outside the David Lewis hospital in Liverpool he recognised her at once.
    â€˜Hullo,’ he had said, filled with cocksure manhood, coming up to her in the twilight while the gaunt outline of Bibby’s bombed warehouse reared up against the pallid wash of the sunset. ‘You’re Shelagh, aren’t you?’ He paused as she stared at him not denying her identity, confused. ‘From County Antrim,’ he added helpfully. ‘D’you remember me? The apprentice that was washed up in the ship’s lifeboat? We arrived at your farm one evening and I frightened you.’ He thought he might be frightening her now, but he ploughed on. ‘I’m John Mackinnon and I remember you very well.’ He had held out his hand while a curious mis-thumping of his heart told him, though he did not know it at the time and only recalled it now, that they had been brushed by the passing wings of fate. And then, after she had recognised him, he walked her into town and paid for two seats at the cinema, learning of her arrival in Liverpool and her desire to become a nurse. He was uncertificated Third Mate of the
George Vancouver
then, just paid off from a fourteen-month voyage and already signed on the
James Cook
preparing to sail to join the Fleet Train in the Pacific in the final struggle with Japan.
    Before the ship sailed for Manaus he and Shelagh had, as the saying went, been walking out together for long enough to know.
    Yes, Captain Mackinnon mused with the persistent profundity of the mildly drunk, he was a lucky man, and leaving the glass two-thirds full, he stumbled through to his night cabin and fell across his bunk.
    Stevenson passed a glass of beer to Taylor and both men crossed the tiny dance floor and sat down.
    â€˜Chas, I – er – I’m really sorry for what I said earlier.’
    Taylor shook his head. ‘Forget it, Alex. I asked for it anyway.’ He made an obvious effort to change the subject. ‘The Mate certainly wanted to get rid of us this evening, didn’t he? Practically kicked us down the gangway.’
    Stevenson agreed, relieved after the tense taxi ride that Taylor bore him no ill-will. ‘We don’t want to talk shop, let’s make the most of tonight.’
    They both stared round the bar. It was still early, but already a couple of Norwegians were necking furiously in the shadows. The girls were Chinese and writhed with sinuous enthusiasm round their captors. The sight made the two Britons uncomfortable. As yet only one other ‘hostess’ was in the place, a beautiful Malay girl who sat alone at the bar, apparently content with her own company. It was obvious to Stevenson that she was having a disconcerting effect on Taylor.
    â€˜Odd about that boatload of refugees this evening,’ Stevenson tried.
    â€˜Sorry?’ Taylor turned from the girl, abstracted.
    â€˜Odd about those refugees. I mean, I couldn’t help feeling, well . . .’ Stevenson’s voice trailed off uncertainly.
    â€˜Ashamed?’ suggested Taylor.
    â€˜Yes, something like that.’ Stevenson struggled with words adequate to fit the deep impression the sight had made on him, aware too that the mood of confidencebetween them had been damaged by his earlier insult, yet eager to re-establish it even if he did run the risk of a rebuff from the younger man. ‘It left me feeling guilty that we could do nothing, but certain that we ought to do something . . .’
    Taylor smiled engagingly over the rim of his glass. ‘Ah, that’s the guilt engendered by your pampered overfed western lifestyle. You see, you haven’t been bred to accept it as your birthright; you are full of the Protestant work ethic that automatically conditions