Faces of Fear by Graham Masterton

looked so much like Marianne. There seemed to be something wrong the whole day. The light was odd. The shadow of the bicycle didn’t seem to fall where he would have expected it to fall. He was attracted to her. He wanted her. He thought of Marianne, lying back in the orchard, with her thighs wide apart. But for some reason he turned around and they were standing not far away, the silver-haired man and his wife in black.
    â€œI’m sorry,” he said. “I’m late. I have to go.”
    â€œWell, you’re mean, as well as rude,” she pouted.
    â€œI have to go. I’m sorry.”
    He began walking away as fast as he could. Stephanie stayed where she was, beside the pyramid, watching him. The silver-haired man and the woman in black watched him, too.
    That night he fell asleep as soon as he went to bed and dreamed of Marianne, and the orchard. He could almost feel his penis sliding in and out of her warm vagina. He woke up, sweating, with a painful erection, and the deepest sense of loss that he had ever experienced.
    It was still only eight o’clock in Connecticut, so he phoned Freddie.
    â€œFreddie, what would you do if Larry died, but then you found somebody exactly the same?”
    â€œWhat kind of a question is that?”
    â€œIt’s just a question. What would you do?”
    â€œWhen you say exactly the same, how exactly?”
    â€œExactly exactly. Right down to the last mole.”
    â€œI don’t know. I guess I couldn’t help finding him attractive. I mean, since Larry is my type, then this guy who was
exactly
the same would have to be my type, too.”
    Gerry looked across at his empty, crumpled bed, and said, “Yes, of course.”
    They stepped out of the comfortable warmth of the Huitre d’Or and straight into a brisk, face-slapping wind from the Channel. Carl gripped his arm, his hair flying, and said, “How about going back for another marc?”
    â€œNo, I’m sorry. I have to get back to Paris this evening. Marketing conference eight thirty sharp.”
    â€œOh, well, another time. At least you’re looking a damned sight better than you did before.”
    â€œYou can’t grieve for ever. And maybe somebodyelse will come along, just when I’m least expecting it.”
    They were walking along the promenade at Arromanches, which had once been Gold Beach, where the Allies landed on D-Day. The dark hulking remains of the Mulberry harbour still lay in the shallows, and a Sherman tank still perched on top of a nearby hill. Gerry was here to evaluate the possibilities of TransWestern opening a hotel/restaurant to cater for ‘living history’ package tours.
    The Channel was the colour of pale gum. The wind was thick with salt and grit, and they had to shield their faces with their hands.
    â€œI’ll say goodbye,” Carl told him, and clasped his hand. “Take more care of yourself, will you? And if that right person comes along – well, grab her with both hands.”
    He watched Carl drive away, and then he walked a little further along the front, and down to the beach. He was crying, but only because of the wind. Two spaniels were scampering around and around on the sand, and a small boy was huddled against the promenade wall with his trousers round his ankles, trying unsuccessfully to pee against the wind.
    Gerry walked out to the water’s edge, even though he was wearing Oxfords. A little way away, a young woman was standing on her own, a woman with a yellow headscarf and a long cream coat. He wondered what she was doing out here, all by herself, staring at the rusting remains of a war that must have been over twenty years before she was born.
    He walked up to her. She didn’t turn around, but stood with one hand clasping the knot of her scarf, quite still, oblivious to the single strand of blonde hair which waved in front of her face.
    â€œKind of spooky, isn’t it?” he asked