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there was always the chance of something kicking off in a situation like this, but Litchbury didn’t strike him as that kind of place.
    They passed the town hall, tourist information, the library. Beagle slowed to a halt, sniffing for somewhere to do his business. Alex’s attention was snagged by a man emerging from the library. He glimpsed the interior: a woman was restocking leaflets in a display stand. She looked nothing like his mum—she was older, her silver hair in a ponytail unlike his mum’s auburn bob—but the sight of a librarian at work got to him. Beyond her, as the door swung shut, Alex saw something else: a row of computer terminals.
    Beagle was done. Alex scooped it up with the sandwich bag and dropped it into a bin. Fastening the lead to a bike stand and muttering words of reassurance, he left the dog outside and went up the steps into the library.
    “ Hello , Philip.” It was the silver-haired librarian. Smiling, but looking vaguely surprised. Irish, by the sound of it. “We don’t often see you in here.”
    “No, I … I’ve been … No. Hello.”
    “How’s your mum?”
    Okay, so that was how she knew him. “Yeah, she’s good, thanks.”
    It was near closing time and the library wasn’t busy. One computer was in use but the others were free. “Can I go on one of these?” Alex said.
    “Course. Let’s get you set up.” She went behind the counter and tapped around on a keyboard. “Have you got your card with you, Philip?”
    “Er, no. Sorry, I left it at home.”
    “Never mind, I can find you in here. Tyrol Place, isn’t it?”
    Was it? Alex had been up and down that street several times that day without registering its name, or Flip’s house number. “Yes,” he said. “Tyrol, that’s it.”
    “Here we are. Right, you’re on terminal three.” She indicated one of the PCs. Then, looking at her watch. “But you’ve only got a few minutes.” The log-in screen asked for his name and date of birth. He typed Philip Garamond , then his birthday. On the next page he clicked the Internet icon. The plan was to contact David, his best friend. If anyone could tell him what was going on down there, it was him. David’s mobile number was another of those trapped in Alex’s own phone, so calling him wasn’t an option. But he could e-mail him. Or could he? First Alex tried to access his own e-mail account via Tiscali’s Webmail page—only to be blocked by a message informing him that the account was suspended. Why? Who by? Next he went to Crokeham Hill High School’s Web site and navigated to the student e-mail system. But when he entered his log-on details, the user name and password were rejected as invalid. Alex stared at the screen, hand hovering uselessly above the keyboard. Telephone numbers, e-mail addresses—it was as though, piece by piece, he was being erased.
    “Philip.” The word jolted him. How long he’d sat there, he didn’t know. “Sorry, love, but we’re closing now.”
    It wasn’t until he’d got up from the desk and headed outside ( Cheery-bye, Philip—say hello to Alanna for me, won’t you? ) that it struck him.
    Alex stood at the top of the steps, the door slapping shut behind him as he ran his mind back over what he’d just done in there, at that PC. Logging on to the library system, he had filled in the “name” and “date of birth” boxes, as required.
    But. But, but, but … he had entered his own date of birth. He must have typed it automatically; he couldn’t have input Philip’s birth date, because he had no idea what it was. So he’d entered his own—and the system had accepted it.
    Which meant—which could only mean—Alex Gray and Philip Garamond were born in the same year, in the same month, and on the same day.

His first thought was Twins .
    But that was ridiculous. Alex looked too much like his dad not to be his son—the ginger hair, the freckles, the shape of the eyes and nose—and he’d inherited his mum’s asthma.