The Colour of Death Read Free

sugars in the hospital canteen — Fox was sitting behind his desk in his small office in the psychiatric and neurology department with his first patient of the morning.  Fox enjoyed the variety of his work.  Although he treated outpatients here at the main hospital he spent much of his week at Tranquil Waters, the hospital’s specialist residential psychiatric clinic, and still managed to squeeze in time for police forensic work.  This morning’s patient had been on Fox’s latest experimental program and the man’s first words buoyed Fox’s spirits:
    “I can’t tell you how much the treatment’s helped me, Doc.  You’ve given me my life back.”
    “I’m pleased, John.  Really pleased.”  Fox contrasted the beaming young man sitting across from him with the desperate, haunted patient he had met six months ago.  Then, John Fontana had been tyrannized by obsessive-compulsive disorder triggered by spending several years in a religious cult.  Fox prided himself on his professional objectivity but detested cults and the damage they caused.  John’s form of OCD didn’t involve manifest behavioral compulsions but obsessive repugnant thoughts (he was convinced he was possessed by the devil), which made it notoriously difficult to treat with behavioral therapy.  The condition had stopped John working, sleeping or having a social life — or any kind of life — for almost five years.  Finally, after every other treatment had failed, he had joined Fox’s experimental program.  Fox scanned John’s notes and went through a checklist of questions.  “How would you rate your anxiety levels now?”
    “Overall, I’d say they’d halved, down from a ten to a five.  I even have moments when I actually forget about my OCD.  I got my old job back, too.”
    “You’re working again.  That’s great.  How’s your sleep?  Still need Valium or chlorpromazine?”
    “Nope.  My sleep’s fine.  Just taking the Prozac and risperidone you prescribed.”
    “Any side effects?”
    “Just the dry mouth I told you about last time and I’ve put on a bit of weight.  But I can live with fat and happy.”
    Fox smiled as he noted the improvement from earlier consultations.  “You’re still attending the ACT sessions?”
    ‘I haven’t missed one.  They’re really helping me get some distance from my thoughts.”
    “Excellent.”  Fox checked the file one last time, then closed it.  Of the thirty subjects on his study, twenty-eight had enjoyed significant improvements.  “In that case, John, I’d like to see you in a year’s time to check on progress but for now just keep taking the medication and attending the sessions.”  He stood.  “All the very best, John.”
    “You’ve saved my life, Dr. Fox.”  John moved to embrace him but Fox reached out and shook his hand.  “I can’t thank you enough.”
    “Trust me, seeing you do so well is more than enough.”  Fox smiled.  “Thank you for taking part in this program.  Your courage in volunteering will allow us to help others.”  Seeing John leave, Fox’s thoughts returned to the man he had watched over last night, and his smile faded.  He wished he could have done as much to help him.  As the door closed behind John, there was a gentle knock and it opened again.  The expression on the nurse’s face, and the fact that she hadn’t sent one of her staff, told him all he needed to know.  “It’s time?”
    “I’m afraid so, Dr. Fox.”
    Ever since the murder of his parents and sister, Nathan Fox had learned to distance himself from pain and loss but as he returned to the room of last night’s vigil he knew it wasn’t always possible.  Fox was often asked how someone with his natural empathy could inhabit the minds of the mentally disturbed without becoming somehow infected or affected, and he always gave the same answer:  detachment.  If you became involved, or got too close, you became vulnerable and lost perspective.  Applying