Faces of Fear

Faces of Fear by Graham Masterton Page A

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Authors: Graham Masterton
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her.
    At first he thought she wasn’t going to answer, but then she said, “I don’t think so. I think it’s sad. So many lives lost. So many lovers, husbands and sons. So much grief.”
    â€œDo you know how they built the Mulberry harbour? They towed the damn thing all the way from England.”
    She turned and faced him. “I’m not very interested in old things. I like only new things.”
    He stared at her and he felt as if centipedes were crawling down his back. She was so much like Marianne that it could have been her. The same complexion, the same cheekbones, the same faint overbite. Most of all, she had the same colour eyes; like a reflection on a winter lake.
    He knew that it couldn’t be Marianne, any more than the girl on the bus in Rouen had been Marianne, or Stephanie, outside the Louvre. But she was so much alike that he couldn’t speak. He just stood looking at her, his arms by his sides, while the wind flapped his collar against his cheek.
    â€œIs something wrong?” she asked him.
    â€œI’m sorry. I’m really sorry. You remind me of somebody, that’s all.”
    â€œI hope it was somebody you were fond of.”
    He gave her a tight smile. He didn’t know that he could answer that question without a catch in his throat.
    â€œWell,” she said, “I have to be going now. My parents are expecting me.”
    â€œI was just going for a cup of coffee. Why don’t you join me? We could have it the Norman way – you know, with a dash of calvados in it. Just the thing to warm you up.”
    She hesitated, and then she said, “All right. But not for too long. My father gets impatient.”
    They walked back across the beach.
    â€œDo you live nearby?” he asked her.
    â€œI live in St Martin de Fontenay. It’s a little town near Caen. I keep telling myself that I must get out and see the world, but I don’t know. Something always conspires to stop me.”
    They went into a small café with a tiled floor and tables covered with red checkered cloths. The ceiling was hung with fishing nets and plaster lobsters. They sat by the window and ordered two cups of black coffee and two small glasses of calvados. It was too cold to take off their coats.
    â€œYou’re American, aren’t you?” the woman said. “Do you come from a big city in America?”
    â€œI was born in a place called New Milford. That wasn’t exactly your throbbing metropolis. But since then I’ve spent a lot of time in New York, and London, England.”
    â€œI’d love to live in a big city.”
    â€œBelieve me, it’s no great shakes.”
    â€œI don’t care. I’d love to be famous all over the world, and live in a big city.”
    He tipped his calvados into his coffee and stirred it. “What do you want to be famous for? Or do you just want to be famous?”
    â€œI play the cello. Well, I’m learning to play the cello. It’s very demanding for a woman.”
    Gerry lowered his cup and stared at her intently. The woman stared back, quite unabashed. Neither of them said anything for almost a minute.
    â€œYou’re her,” he whispered.
    Her eyes flickered for the first time. “I don’t know what you mean. My name isn’t Marianne. It’s Chloe.”
    â€œAnd your father isn’t a magistrate?”
    â€œOf course not. He’s retired. He used to be the head-teacher at the lycee.”
    Gerry cleared his throat. “I know this is really a stupid thing to ask you, and I won’t be offended if you don’t want to answer, but do you know me at all? Have you ever met me before, anywhere?”
    Chloe shook her head. “I would have remembered, don’t you think?”
    Gerry said, “It’s incredible. The resemblance is incredible. You’re just like her.”
    There was another long pause, during which they simply sat and looked at each

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