It’s only afterwards maybe, when you’ve had time to run it through again and again from all angles, that a sudden accident starts to make any sense. At the time you’re being propelled in such an unstoppable blur that the loss of all awareness soon leads to the loss of consciousness. And if the latter is merely temporary, then you’re one of the lucky ones. Plenty of people, as I’m well aware, have had worse crashes than I did and never had the opportunity to replay the incident - or, for that matter, any other incident - ever again.

              All I know is that I must have rolled that Honda at least once - I’d even guess twice. What I remember for sure was a skid, a violent turn that I couldn’t control, and then a series of revolutions. And that’s where the mind lets you down. The cops estimated once. For me, it felt like I went over twice. After that, as I believe someone else almost said before, the rest was a series of silences.

              In that condition, there’s no knowing how long any of those silences lasted. Generally, according to my own mercifully limited experience, it’s usually much shorter than you think. What seems like thirty minutes or an hour is actually more like five minutes or ten. Time’s distorted.

              At some point I managed to clamber out. I have no recollection whatsoever of doing so, or of how difficult or easy it might have been. I recall a certain dampness around me - at least I think I do - and a freshness that went with it. After that … well, after that, I was out.

              Until I heard a sound. A sound like I’d never heard before.

              It was a hum. A hum that became louder and more modulated as it approached. It spoke just one word: speed. And then it suddenly stopped.

              There was a click, then a crunching sound. Feet, perhaps. At this point, my eyes were still closed.

              “You look pretty banged up there, kid.”

              I think I groaned. I was back in the room, so to speak, but unable to place words on my tongue.

              “Here, let me take a look …”

              All the time, I knew what he was saying. I just didn’t know where I was, or what had happened.

              I felt hands exploring my head. “Well, I’ve seen worse. … Just sit tight. I’ve got something in the car and I’ll try to patch you up before we get you to a doctor.”

              At that, he - whoever he was - went off. And I - for the first time since who knows when - opened my eyes.

              I can’t say there was any pain. Just a general sense of confusion. I remember opening my lids wide and blinking, then looking back at the damage. Next thing, I put my hand to my head and was shocked to find it becoming wet and turning red. I don’t know why, but I imagined the blood to be flowing down like lava. I don’t think it was. I don’t think it ever had been. But it was certainly more than a scratch.

              The man came back with a bandage. I tried to focus on him but it was almost beyond me. He was tall - I recognised that much - and he had dark hair, slicked back, and a thin mustache. The rest was lost in the overpowering darkness of the night.

              “Ok, kid, I’ll just wrap you up.” And he applied the bandage to my head.

              “Can you walk?”

              Honestly, I didn’t know. But I said what you always say in such situations. “I think so …”

              “Let’s get you up. That’s it. Nice and easy now.”

              He put my arm over his shoulder and took me the few steps to his car. And if there was one particular moment above all that shook me out of my stupor, it was the sight of this vehicle! To such an extent that I know I stood and stared at it before I attempted to get in.

              It was like a green velvet slipper. Open topped, with a red leather interior. It was the most incredible piece of engineering I’d ever seen.

              I looked at him and he smiled. “Quite a beauty, eh?”

              Rendered more speechless than ever, I just puffed out my cheeks. This made him smile even more.

              He flipped open the passenger door. “Come on, let’s get you in.” Then he accessed his side, turned the key, and we were off.

              Instinctively, I reached for the seat-belt. I reached and reached, Looked here and there, then gave up. There wasn’t one.

              “What do you remember?”

              Yes, what did I remember?

              “Not a great deal. I think I was out of it until I heard your engine.”

            He laughed. “Worse things to be woken up by, huh?”

            I had to agree.

              “Were you liquored up? Round here by Mulholland’s not the best place to be driving when you’ve been on the juice!”

              I felt slightly affronted. “No. I hadn’t touched a drop. I never drink and drive.”

              He gave me a look.

              “Never take drugs and drive either.”

              He raised his eyebrows.

              “Well, can happen to anyone. I must have been acquainted with half the trees in Los Angeles …”

              Now it was my turn to raise my eyebrows. The stiffness that was beginning to affect my head told me this wasn’t such a good idea.

              “What’s your name, kid?”

              “Brandon. Brandon Waites. Junior.’

              He looked amused. “Come from round here, Brandon Waites Junior?”

              “Toluca Lake, sir.”

              I still don’t have the first idea why I called him ‘sir’. Outside the classroom, I’ve never in my whole life called any adults ‘sir’!

              “Toluca Lake?” He smiled. “Had a lot of good times there.”

              “It’s a nice place.”

              “Sure is.”

              “Got a job?”

              “I’m at college. UCLA. English major.”

              “Well, English is one thing that’ll never go out of fashion!”

              He checked his watch. “3 am. Bit late for a scenic trip! Were you out trying to see what kind of speeds you could clock up?”

              “Oh …” It came out a bit more loudly than it should have done.

              “You alright there, kid?”

              I said yes, but I wasn’t. Because now I finally remembered why I’d been out there at that hour, and most probably why I’d crashed.

              “Don’t worry - we’ll reach the hospital soon …”

              And at the speed he was going, we certainly would, even if the hospital was in San Francisco. I checked the speedometer. It was eighty, rising ninety. And it was magical!

              Clearly he could sense my appreciation.

              “She’s a smooth one alright!”

              “Maybe we’re better off with cars than girls sometimes …”

              “Oh, now I get you. Now it all makes sense. Well, the car was more dangerous tonight. But in the long run, the girls will win every time.”

              “I guess …”

              We had our first (very short) period of silence. I had to ask him.

              “Sir, have you ever been dumped?”

              This elicited his biggest laugh of the evening. Or, rather, morning.

              “Have I? You bet I have! I’ve been dumped. I’ve done the dumping. In the end, nobody comes out of it with a whole lot of glory.”

              “Chiara - my girlfriend - she thought I cheated …”

              “Well, did you?”

              “No … it was just … well, maybe flirtation - not from me so much, from the other girl …”

              “It doesn’t sound so bad. As you tell it. But you know what girls are like. Especially at your age. She is your age, I assume? Not the mother of one of your friends or an elderly neighbour?”

              I had to smile. “No. No, she’s my age.”

              “Well, I’m sure I’m the last one who should be giving anybody any advice. All I’ll say is that however young or old you are doesn’t matter and don’t listen to anyone who says it does. When you find the right person, you’ll know. And when you do, well, just do whatever you can to keep hold of her.”

              I looked at his face. He was concentrating hard on the road, but he wasn’t smiling now.

              “Did you … I mean, find the right one?”

              “I did. Then I lost her through my own stupidity and spent the next forty years regretting it.”

              I couldn’t stop myself. “I don’t know how I’d get over a thing like that …”

              “Oh, you don’t,” he replied, rather gruffly. “You just carry on. Because you have to carry on. Learn to smile again, and carry on.” He glanced at me. “It’s called acting, kid. And whether we realise it or not, it’s something we do almost every day of our lives.”

              And then, as quickly as we’d started, we stopped.

              “Well, here we are, Brandon Waites. Junior. Just a minute and I’ll help you out.”

              And now it really hit me. My head was beginning to ache. Really ache. And my legs were weak.

              “Steady on. Almost there.”

              I looked up. A sign said SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA HOSPITAL.

              “We’ll just get you to the door. You’ll be alright now. Bit of a sore head for a few days, but then you’ll be fine.”

              “Aren’t you coming in?”

              “No. I’ve got another appointment.” He raised his eyebrows and smiled a boyish smile.

              “Thanks for everything …”

              “It was a pleasure to meet you, kid. But don’t let me see you ever again, ok?”

              I said “ok” but, in truth, I didn’t really know what I was saying ok to.

***

“Who wrapped you up?”

              “I … er … I don’t know … The guy who brought me here.”

              “Well, he did a pretty decent job.”

              And the next few hours passed with tests and questions from doctors and cops and plenty of rest.

              The upshot of it all was that I was concussed, but not particularly badly and no lasting damage had been done. Luckily, no bones were broken either, but the bruising in the coming days was something else, as I turned into a human rainbow of reds, purples, greens and yellows.

              Oh, and I wasn’t drunk either. That was official.

              The poor old Honda was a write-off. Dad was strangely sympathetic. Mother surprisingly unforgiving.

              Chiara was distraught.

              It wasn’t, of course, the most painless or advisable way to get back together, but somehow it brought our troubles - or lack of real troubles - into focus and now we’re a lot more careful on both sides. I’d even go as far as to say we’re good. Better than good.

              But I can’t leave it there. Of course I can’t leave it there.

              Bit by bit, as I lay on that hospitable bed, moments came back to me. For the most part, the circumstances of the crash remained as deep and dark as the night itself. Of the details I could remember of its aftermath, however, I felt I was much more certain.

              And I was certain of something else, too, as I lay there: namely, that someone was watching me.

              An orderly. An old guy with a greying mustache. He was around a lot. And let’s just say there’s a distinction between being around a lot by accident or by design which, even in my fuzzy state, I was able to make.

              At first, I saw him outside the window. Then by the door. He was even briefly in the room while I was talking to the hospital staff, or was it the cops? Or both? I can’t recall exactly. All I knew - or sensed - was that he was waiting for a chance to speak. And, when I was preparing to leave, he found the opportunity he was looking for.

              “Young fella, how you feeling?”

              I reached for my head. “Oh, not so bad. Not as bad as it could’ve been, at least.”

              “You had a lucky one …” He looked at me. I looked back at him. “That guy - the one who brought you in … you didn’t catch his name?”

              “You know about that?”

              “I … er … I heard something.” He smiled.

              “Well, no. No, I didn’t. … Unfortunately.”

              “That car of his, was it green?”

              “It was. It was something else, I can tell you that.”

              “Did it look like this?” He showed me a picture on his phone.

              “It did! That’s exactly it!”

              “That’s a 1952 Jaguar XK120. The fastest production car of its time.”

              I remember moving my lips to say something, but nothing coming out.

              “And that fella, what did he look like look?”

              “Oh … he was very distinctive. Tall, broad. Dark hair, greying a bit at the sides. Mustache.”

              “Him?”

              I looked at the phone. “Him!”

              “You don’t know who that was, I’ll bet?”

              “I … I don’t …”

              The man’s eyes went towards the ceiling. “Young folk today. You have access to everything and you know nothing!”

              I was aware of myself smiling weakly. What could I say?

              “Sorry, old Barnaby’s a bit too keen to speak his mind sometimes.” He smiled. “That’s my name, Barnaby.” He put out his hand.

              “Brandon.”

              “That man you met out there … that was the King.”

              “The King?”

              “The King of Hollywood. Mr Gable.”

              “Mr …” Oh! I cursed my stupidity. I knew the name, of course. I wasn’t such a fan of old movies but, come on, who hasn’t heard of Gone with the Wind? Even now.            

              “But how?”

              He nodded slowly. “How? Yes, that’s a very good question …”

              I waited for him to answer it.

              “How, I don’t know. Why, I think I know. But what I don’t dispute is that it was Clark Gable - or some form of him - who brought you in here today.”

              “You’re sure?”

              “I am. Because he did the same thing for me forty years ago.”

              I spluttered something. Don’t even know what I said.

              “I had a crash. A fairly bad crash, out Glendale way. Car was on fire and all, and he pulled me out. I swear he pulled me out just before the thing went up like a rocket.” He looked pensive. “Won’t say what it was, but he gave me some pretty valuable advice that night as well. Words I’ve tried to live by ever since.”

              “Did … Did you ever tell anyone about it? About what happened?”

              “I did. I started off telling everyone, but they just plain didn’t believe me! They said I was concussed, or I’d hallucinated. And maybe I was, and maybe I did. But it was him, I tell you. As clear as you’re standing before me now. With that car.” He nodded at the memory of it. “Well, I kept telling them till they was sick of hearing about it. Till they thought the crash had left me permanently crazy! Then I stopped. But I know what I know. Just as you know what you know.”

              “It happened. It was him.”

              “It was. I’ve seen them come in over the years. I’ve heard them tell a similar story, then most of them convince themselves - or be convinced - that it was all some kind of illusion.”

              “But why? Why does he do it? You said you thought you knew.”

              “Well, I tried to work it out. Tried to find out more about him and make some kind of conclusion.”

              Speed of speech, as I know now, isn’t exactly Barnaby’s style. But I couldn’t wait. “And?”

              “And … I’d narrow it down to one particular thing: guilt.”

              “Guilt?”

              “That’s right. Some people say he ran down and killed a woman while he was drunk. Well, that would be an easy explanation. But from what I can understand, that never happened. No, I think it’s more about what happened between him and Carole.” He anticipated my next question. “Carole Lombard. Most probably you wouldn’t have heard about her. She was Mr Gable’s wife, and she was killed in a plane crash during the war.”

              “He told me about that! About how he’d lost the love of his life. Through his own stupidity, he said.”

              “That’s it. That would be her. Well, whether he blamed himself unnecessarily, or whether he was right to do so, we’ll never know for sure. But, whatever it is, there’s something out there that keeps him going. Trying to make up for something maybe. I don’t know. Sounds sentimental, but that’s the best I’ve managed to come up with in forty years!”

              Just then, at the very worst time, Mother appeared. Followed by Dad.

              I introduced them to Barnaby with an enthusiasm that they no doubt attributed to concussion. But as the months went on, his presence - and the presence of a few other grateful beneficiaries of the King’s Patrol - was something they began to get used to.