A Killing Resurrected by Frank Smith Page A

hospital corridor, looking out across Abbey Road to where the weathered stones of the minster ruins shimmered in the searing rays of the midday sun. A busload of tourists took pictures of one another against the backdrop of the ancient walls, while the driver, clearly bored, leaned against the bus, smoking a cigarette.
    It was a pleasant summer scene, but it was wasted on Alcott, preoccupied as he was with what Miller had just told him.
    â€˜And what I would like to know,’ the doctor continued, ‘is why Marion let it go so long before coming to see me? She must have been having trouble for a long time; emphysema isn’t something that comes on suddenly; it takes time to develop, and she must have known something was seriously wrong long before now. The coughing, the wheezing, the shortage of breath. To be brutally honest, Tom, I would have been far less surprised if it had been you with that condition, and from the way you’re going on, that could still happen. God knows I’ve been trying to get you to stop smoking for years, but you wouldn’t listen, and now it seems it’s your wife who is suffering the consequences.’
    Alcott bristled. ‘Are you saying it’s
my
fault she has emphysema?’
    Miller shrugged. ‘I’ve been in your house, remember? Who else in your house is a chain smoker? You must have seen what it was doing to her.’
    â€˜I know she’s had this cough she couldn’t seem to get rid of,’ Alcott admitted, ‘but we thought it was probably the after effects of the flu she had last winter.’
    â€˜Oh, for God’s sake, Tom, it’s July! Or is that something else you didn’t notice?’
    Colour rose in Alcott’s face. ‘What about you?’ he demanded. ‘You’re her doctor. You’ve seen her. We have check-ups every year. Surely
you
would have noticed if there was—?’
    â€˜Marion hasn’t been in to see me for more than two years,’ Miller cut in sharply. ‘She missed last year altogether, and she’s cancelled two appointments so far this year, so don’t try to blame me for Marion’s condition.’
    â€˜It hasn’t affected me,’ Alcott shot back, ‘so why would it affect Marion. She could be allergic to—’
    â€˜Now you
are
being wilfully blind!’ Miller said scornfully. ‘This has nothing to do with allergies, but it does have everything to do with second-hand smoke, and I wouldn’t be too confident about it not affecting you. Of course it’s affecting you; you know it and I know it, and quite frankly, Tom, I’m getting sick and tired of telling people to stop smoking, have them ignore everything I tell them, then expect some sort of miracle cure when they fall prey to COPD.’
    Alcott took a deep breath. ‘So what can be done for Marion?’ he asked. ‘What sort of treatment will she have to take?’
    Miller eyed Alcott bleakly. ‘I said it was serious, Tom, and I meant it. The damage to Marion’s lungs is permanent. Lungs don’t recover from something like this; they don’t mend themselves. All we can do is try to alleviate the condition. The muscle spasms may respond to bronchodilators, and there are one or two other things we can do, but she will never be able to breathe properly again, and she must stay away from anyone who has the flu or any other infection.’
    â€˜How long do you think she will be in hospital?’
    â€˜That will be up to Dr Nichols – the consultant who spoke to you yesterday – and how well Marion responds to treatment, but I strongly advise you to find somewhere for her to go other than back to your house. I’m deadly serious about second-hand smoke, Tom. As I said, I’ve been in your house and you may be used to it, but I came out of there with my eyes stinging. The curtains, the carpets, the walls, everything is riddled with it. You must not