A Magician Never Tells His Secrets

We were crunching our way across the pebbles, the sun reflecting off their worn sandy sheen, interrupted by the protruding grass which crawled amongst the stones. The heat seemed to soak around us, a moist kind of sunshine, and I found myself wishing for sunglasses.
We walked around the back of a few caravans and behind the barrier we found the scowling boy from before, who Daw had before called Liam Aloysius. The blade man.
Under the mess of dark hair, his strong brows were inclined at familiar, angst-ridden angles above deep set eyes. His face was oddly proportioned, with a narrow chin and wide cheekbones, but this was all incredibly attractive, and as I looked at the freckled face I found myself blushing. He wasn’t a pretty as Anton, or as charming as Peter, but there was rouge, rugged handsomeness to him.
He was leaning against the caravan, wearing a white tank top which stretched over extensive chest and abdominal muscles; one bare foot was propped up against the wood, his other leg, clad in dark denim, supporting his weight.
“Hey Liam,” Daw called as we neared his brooding spot. He turned to look at us, and his down-turned lips lifted into a smile, though his brow stayed in his angry arch.
“Hi,” he replied, his voice a gravely husk. “What’s up?”
“This is Meg,” Daw said, jerking her head in my direction. I wondered how she managed with her gold neck brace.
“Hey,” I said, trying to sound cooler than I was. I cleared my throat nervously.
“Where you from Meg?” He said from between a cigarette, behind a lighter.
“Last town past,” I answered. “This is my first day.”
He coughed a laugh. “Good luck.”
“Any advice for the budding carnie?” Daw teased, nudging me.
“Well,” he began, pretending to be pensive as the hand with the cigarette scratched his lightly stubbled chin. “Eat your vegetables. Don’t talk to strangers. Make sure you wash behind your ears…”
Daw elbowed him.
“How about staying away from those filthy gypsies?” A loud voice interrupted.
I turned, a frown in place, to see an elderly Asian man sitting on a milk crate in the shade of a caravan, a wooden Diablo in his hands.
“Oh,” Daw said, her voice flat. “It’s you Mr Shi.”
“I said, stay away from them lulies, if you know what’s good for you.”
The old man had risen from his milk cart and taken up a walking stick, limping over to us with a quivering body.
“Mr Shi, this is Megan Woodville,” Daw said evenly. My lips twitched into a nervous smile.
“Pleasure to meet you,” I said quietly, trying not to startle to infirm old man.
He snorted. “No good come from gypsies. No good, no good,” he repeated, smacking his stick on the pebbles to the syllables of the last four words. “People like them bad. Prokhor bad. That Mary Prescott shouldn’t have let him back in. Now look at us. Over run with the filthy Russians. Americans who with them in same boat.” He summarised in his broken, heavily accented English, glaring at me warningly.
“Father, your not being rude, are you?” Asked another voice. A man stepped out from around the caravan. He looked like an athlete, with a tight, well built body covered by a casual tee shirt and sweat-pants combination. His black hair was cropped short above a perfectly structured face, his face a yellowed tan.
“Shaoran,” Daw nodded to him.
“Mother says it’s time for your medication,” Shaoran said to his father firmly. Mr Shi grumbled something unintelligible and limped back to the van as I stared after him in wonder.
“I apologise on behalf of my father,” the young man continued, bowing to me. “If he said anything to offend you.”
“Oh, ah, no,” I stammered, alarmed by his polite manner. “It’s nothing at all.”
“Keep him on a leash,” Liam muttered, crossing his arms. “Guy can’t be controlled.”
“And you can?” Daw asked, frowning at him.
Liam shrugged, stubbing out his cigarette with a bare toe.
“I agree with him on some stuff though, don’t you Shaoran?” Liam continued, leaning back as I gaped at his uninjured foot. “Filthy gypsies.” He spat once onto the stones. “Send em back where they came from, I say. Them and anyone who hangs out with them. And that includes that spineless Prescott.”
My eyes widened as Shaoran nodded.
“We could always spend Prescott back express post,” Daw laughed.
“Sooner the better for that cocky idiot,” Liam agreed.
I was half shocked, half deeply disappointed. I had expected working in a carnival to be fun, and I quickly learnt that being stuck in the middle of apartheid is anything but fun.