Free A Dark Dividing by Sarah Rayne

used an unexpectedly picturesque phrase—pathways into the past. It conjured up the dusty purlieus of ancient files and curling-edged letters and mediums’ trances, and Harry suspected Markovitch had employed it calculatedly to snare his interest. He ate a makeshift meal in the small kitchen of his flat, dumped the dishes in the sink, and in the absence of the Sobranie and the hat poured himself a large whisky and sat down at the computer. The portals of the internet might not be as romantic as fading photographs and sepia-inked diaries but they opened up the past a whole lot faster. You see, Mr Wells, after all we discovered a time machine to take us back. But we call it an internet search engine. What do you think of that for a good science-fiction title, H.G., or can I call you Herbert?
    He found the announcement of the twins’ birth easily enough. Just over twenty-two years ago it had been, and Simone’s twin was called Sonia—the name had a faintly foreign, slightly exotic ring to it which Harry rather liked. The journalists of the day had pounced on the story, of course, and splattered it across their pages. ‘ Conjoined twins born in North London… ’ ‘ Wife of by - election’s front runner gives birth to Siamese twins… ’
    But the story had got going in earnest when Joseph Anderson had unexpectedly adopted religious scruples over the operation to separate them. Harry, reading the articles critically, had no idea if this was genuine or assumed. Given Anderson’s political aspirations, which were mentioned several times, it might very well be a convenient pose. He tried to think if the anti-sleaze movement had got going at the start of the 1980s, and thought it had.
    But whatever Anderson’s motives, the whole thing had made for terrific copy. Part sob-story, part ethical dilemma, part ordinary people propelled into an extraordinary situation. Markovitch, vampiric old hack, must have revelled in it at the time. Hell, it sounded as if most of Fleet Street had revelled in it.
    ‘ Siamese twins’ dad says, “When God deals a bad hand we have to grin and bear it,” ’ That was the Mirror , of course. The Telegraph had assembled a few comments from Church leaders, with one or two bishops rather guardedly observing that there was a duty to the newborn and medical science was a wonderful thing, and Rome coming down strong on the side of the unborn, and pointing out that the sanctity of life must always be paramount.
    The Times , with the dignity it usually considered incumbent on its position, had run articles written by a few eminent gynaecologists, most of whom had taken up several column inches to describe the exact process of the surgical procedure that was envisaged for the Anderson twins, and also several other surgical procedures that, as far as Harry could make out, had bugger-all to do with the case in question.
    The Mail had been quite sympathetic to Joseph Anderson, (‘ The agony of a father… ’) but the Sun had been distinctly derisory, and had managed to get hold of a particularly bad photograph of Anderson looking predatory at a ballot-box. The sub-editor had positioned it alongside a very smudgy shot of two small babies who might have been anyone, and who were probably not the Anderson twins at all. To round things off there were several snide observations about innocent and defenceless newborn creatures, and even a quotation from Pope about the trusting lamb licking the hand that was raised to shed its blood, although God alone knew where the Sun had got hold of a Pope quotation.
    This was all so far, so good. Harry saved several of the articles for future reference, typed up some notes for possible sidelines for inquiry, and jotted down likely-sounding sentences as they occurred to him. After an hour of this he leaned back, massaging his neck to ease muscles cramped from bending over the keyboard for so long.
    He would have to pursue the twins’ lives as far as he could, of course. He