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azombiewritesTitle: The Collected Hurts of DS Jones
Fandom: Midsomer Murders
Genre: Hurt/Comfort.
Rating: PG
Summary: 5 times DS Jones was whumped and 1 time he wasn't.
Main Characters: DS Ben Jones, DCI John Barnaby, Sarah Barnaby, Tom Barnaby, Joyce Barnaby and Sykes.
Disclaimer: Created and based on the characters and books by Caroline Graham. A Bentley production for ITV.
Spoilers: Set after 15x4 'Death and the Divas'.
Word Count: 3,746
Status: Each chapter can be read as a stand-alone story. Complete
6. The Necessary Angst-Ridden Situation
Summary: It’s natural to grieve when someone you love dies, but how do you grieve when you refuse to accept their death.
John Barnaby, bored and restless on a quiet Friday afternoon was ready to chuck it all in and go home. His gaze shifted between the pile of must-be-completed-before-Monday paperwork on his desk and the exit. He wanted to go home, weekend visitors arriving in less than an hour, the paperwork the only thing keeping him from leaving. Jones, a well-trained lackey, obedient and loyal, normally did the paperwork, keeping on top of it on a daily basis but Barnaby had been without his sergeant for over a week now, a nasty case of influenza putting Jones into a near permanent horizontal position, incomplete paperwork growing into a resentful pile.
Needing to make a quick decision, not wanting to spend all afternoon making up his mind, Barnaby thought of what the consequences of not doing the paperwork would be. Repercussions looking not too bad, he made his decision; can’t have Jones feeling redundant when he returned to work on Monday. Child-like smile creeping over his features, Barnaby picked up the tower of paperwork, files stumbling in his grasp and leant forward, his intention to put it where it belonged; on his sergeant’s desk. He glanced around the office, the room mostly empty, searching for unwanted witnesses, spotting someone he hadn’t expected to see today. Ben Jones, pale, thinner than he was a week ago, his expression unreadable, walked into the office.
Caught in the act, Barnaby fell back into his seat, paperwork collapsing into an untidy heap on his desk. Someone was trying to tell him something. A subtle omen if there ever was one. He opened the top folder, gaze skimming the contents, a pretence that he was working, not allocating an unwanted task back to his sergeant.
Stopping in front of his desk, Jones smiled, green eyes in disagreement with his facial expression, “Sir?”
“Jones,” said Barnaby, gaze lifting, look of surprise not quite believable. “I wasn’t expecting you back until Monday.”
“Thought I’d get started on that paperwork,” said Jones, nodding toward the mound of uncoordinated folders on Barnaby’s desk.
Barnaby nodded, the movement riddled with guilt. “Actually, I was just making a start on it.”
“Yeah, well, now you don’t have to.”
“I knew you were good for something, Jones,” said Barnaby.
Coming around to Barnaby’s side of the desk, Jones’s smile faltered. Barnaby regretted his words, his sergeant’s mind and body still under the control of physical exhaustion, not yet ready for their usual playful banter. He watched as Jones gathered the folders into an awkward embrace before returning to his desk, dropping into his chair.
Narrowing his eyes, Barnaby studied his sergeant, taking a few moments before making a sympathetic effort to make up for his previous comment, “You look tired.”
Ignoring the statement, Jones pulled the top folder from the pile, opening it, and frowning down at the sight before him, said, “This should have been done on Wednesday.”
Raising his eyebrows in mock surprise, Barnaby said, “Really.”
Pen in hand, Jones began to work, quickly and quietly filling in the form before putting it to the side, picking up another one, repeating the process.
Feeling dismissed, Barnaby considered taking advantage of the opportunity given to him and going home, paperwork now in Jones’s more than capable hands. Lips pursed, he decided to wait a few more minutes, not rush out the door as soon as he was able, leaving Jones to feel like a used and abused lackey. Looking for something to do, Barnaby spotted the tea lady, wheels of her trolley screaming in protest. She paused, eyebrow rising, asking a repetitive question. Tea? Not for Barnaby, but Jones looked as though he could do with a good dose of caffeine.
“Coffee?”
Refusing to look up, Jones said, “No, thank you.”
The tea lady moved on, Jones’s response giving her a satisfactory answer.
More bored than he had been, Barnaby decided to converse with his sergeant, anything to pass the time, even if Jones’s responses were mere grunts of frustration when constantly interrupted; find joy in the little things.
“You got over the flu all right then?”
Barnaby noticed the slight pause, pen hovering before continuing. “Yeah.”
Everything shifted. Hairs tingling on the back of his neck, an uncomfortable sensation crawling along his spine, Barnaby got the sudden impression that something wasn’t right in the world of Ben Jones. Feeling the worry, the concern beginning to nag at his insides, stomach feeling as though he’d eaten something rotten, Barnaby asked, “Everything all right, Jones?”
“Everything’s fine, sir,” said Jones, still not looking up.
“It’s just . . .” Barnaby hesitated, taking a calming breath. “You seem a bit off.”
“I’ve been off. Flu and all that.”
“Right,” said Barnaby, nodding in agreement before getting to the point. “Just seems like there’s more to it than that.”
Looking up, Jones lowered his pen, paperwork forgotten, his expression suspicious, challenging. A side to his sergeant Barnaby didn’t see very often. “Don’t psychoanalyse me, sir.”
A definite confirmation that something was wrong. Being a detective, Barnaby decided it was time to detect, find out what was bothering Jones.
“Why not?”
“Why not?”
“Yes,” said Barnaby. “Why not?”
“Because there’s no reason to,” said Jones, his mood changing, becoming defensive. “There’s nothing bothering me. I’m fine. Just tired.”
His sergeant, never a good liar, looked more than tired. He looked wrong.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“Talk about what, sir?”
“Whatever it is that’s bothering you.”
“Sir! There’s nothing bothering me. I was sick with flu. That’s all.”
Barnaby nodded, “No. That’s not all. There’s something else.”
“What are you trying to say,” said Jones. “That I’m lying?”
“Of course not. But you’re not being truthful. To yourself or to me.”
“How’s this for truthful? Mind your own business.”
Barnaby smiled but there was no humour behind the expression, his patience beginning to wane, his anger growing. He leaned forward, placing his forearms on the desk and watched his sergeant, his scrutiny causing Jones to fidget, his sergeant’s body language becoming passive.
“It’s my business if it affects your ability to do your job.”
“It won’t, sir.”
“So, there is something wrong.”
“No, sir. There isn’t.”
Thinking it was the end of the conversation, Jones returned to his paperwork, eyes glazed, hands trembling so much he held the pen in a grip that turned his knuckles white. Barnaby decided not to push it, Jones obviously not in the mood to surrender any significant information as to what was bothering him. Whatever it was, it was serious. Oh no. No. No. No. Feeling like someone punched him in the gut, breath stolen, chest tight with an ache so severe, Barnaby thought his world was turning upside down.
“Ben?”
Jones let out an aggravated breath, his tension building, stubborn gaze downward. “Sir?”
“Are you . . . sick?”
“Not anymore.”
“I mean . . . Is it something more serious than the flu?”
Jones, confused by the question, looked up, taking a moment to understand, his expression dropping. “No, sir. I’m fine.”
Barnaby actually believed him. If it wasn’t physical, it had to be emotional. “Then what is it?”
Expression much like a puppy on its deathbed, Jones said, “Sir, please. Can you just leave it alone?”
“Then promise me one thing, Jones,” said Barnaby, defeat sending him slumping back into his seat, body sagging. “When you’re ready to talk, you’ll come to me.”
“If it keeps you out of my business.”
Insubordinate sod.
“Jones, just so we understand each other,” said Barnaby. “Drop the attitude.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” said Jones, fingers of his right hand rubbing painfully against his forehead as he let out a long, suffering sigh. “I didn’t mean . . . please. Just leave it.”
“Headache?”
“Yeah.”
“Go back home, Jones. I’ll do the paperwork.”
“Sir, if I spend another day at home . . . I now know the name of every character on EastEnders.”
“That’s a lot,” said Barnaby, shifting uncomfortably in his seat when he noticed the look his sergeant was giving him. “Sykes likes to watch it.”
“Of course he does, sir.”
Barnaby relaxed, the tension between the two of them easing. Maybe it was for the better that he leave it alone, give his sergeant time to sort himself out, allow him to talk when he was ready because, right now, Jones wasn’t a willing participant in the conversation. Jones wasn’t ready to talk, nothing Barnaby could say that would get him to the stage of letting go.
Knowing a change of topic was required, a subject that would be more interesting to Jones, Barnaby said, “I’ve got some news that should cheer you up.”
Jones grimaced, “Do I look like I need cheering up?”
“Now that you mention it . . . Tom and Joyce are down for the weekend.”
“That’s supposed to cheer me up, is it, sir?”
Not the response he was expecting. Even more worried, and now slightly confused, Barnaby said, “I was going to call you tonight, but since you’re here. We’re having a small get-together tomorrow. Some of Tom and Joyce’s friends are going to come over. Drinks. Finger food. Joyce’s vacation movies. That sort of thing. Tom was hoping you’d come.”
His expression turning sullen, guilty, Jones said, “I can’t.”
“They’re looking forward to seeing you,” said Barnaby.
“I’ve got something else on.”
“Bring her with you.”
Jones laughed, the sound empty, hollow. “I can’t do that.”
“Why not? We don’t bite.”
Shaking his head, Jones looked downward, staring at his hands. “Just . . . no.”
“Change your plans then.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not? I’m sure she’ll understand.”
“Sir . . . I can’t change my plans. I can’t bring her with me. I can’t . . .”
“Sunday then,” said Barnaby. “Dinner. Just the five of us. You can bring your . . . friend.”
Wiping his hands over his face, through his hair, the movement aggressive, painful almost, Jones sat further back into his chair, fingers gripping the back of his neck, holding it in a tight uncompromising grip.
The sight was distressing for Barnaby. To know that something was wrong and to not be able to do anything to help, Jones unwilling to accept Barnaby’s help making the situation worse, more emotional. Barnaby sat forward once more, forearms back on the desk, hands clasped together and perceptive enough to know the answer to his suggestion, said, “If you don’t come on Sunday, they’re going to show up on your doorstep.”
“You’re right, sir,” said Jones, hands falling to his sides, body language defeated.
“As always, Jones.”
Jones stood up, stepping away from his chair, his desk, unable to keep still. “I should go home.”
“Sunday? Three o’clock.”
It was like pulling teeth.
“Yes, sir.”
“Jones?”
Pausing, Jones turned around, “Sir?”
Barnaby frowned, Jones’s expression shifting, changing too quickly, his mood turning sombre.
“If you need to talk before Sunday, call me.”
“Yes, sir.”
Barnaby watched as Jones left the office, his sergeant ignoring those around him, pushing through a small crowd of uniformed officers. Mind churning, psychology degree useful, Barnaby came to a sudden realisation. Jones seemed to be depressed. Not a word Barnaby wanted to use, but it fit, the underlying cause of the depression unknown. Not for long though, Barnaby’s intention to find the cause, come up with a solution to help his sergeant through an emotional crisis that had left him in a mood so low . . . no, Jones wasn’t going to go through it alone. Barnaby smiled, the knowledge that Jones wasn’t going to be able to say no to Tom Barnaby giving him a small amount of comfort.
.
.
.
Standing at the front window, John Barnaby watched the street, his driveway, looking for a familiar car; Ben Jones was an hour late. His sergeant wasn’t coming, Barnaby was sure of that, opportunity to find out what was wrong now gone. If he thought Jones would answer, he would call him; berate him for changing his plans, staying at home, tail between his legs, instead of showing up on the Barnaby’s doorstep, bottle of red wine in hand. Not yet ready to turn away, to dismiss his sergeant, Barnaby continued to wait, deciding to give Jones another ten minutes before giving up and returning to his guests.
Heart pounding, worry grating at his nerves, Barnaby stepped back from the window. Pivoting on his heels, he saw movement in his peripheral, Jones’s Ford Mondeo pulling into the driveway. About to move toward the front door, Barnaby paused as he noticed his sergeant’s reluctance to get out of the car. Jones sat still, seconds passing before he leant forward, forehead resting against the steering wheel. It was obvious to Barnaby that his sergeant didn’t want to be here, given no choice in the matter, pushed into a social gathering he wanted no part of; this was going to make things more difficult, Jones’s mood no doubt more defensive that passive.
Seconds becoming minutes, Barnaby decided he could watch no more, stepping to the front door, opening it. He pretended not to notice his sergeant’s body jerking upward in surprise, unaware Barnaby had been watching him. Barnaby waited patiently on the front door step as Jones got out of the car, as he began walking to the front door, bringing with him a bouquet of flowers and an expensive bottle of Scotch. The sight of jeans and shirt showed Barnaby how much weight Jones had lost over the last week. Pushing the thought aside, Barnaby smiled in greeting, not failing to notice when Jones didn’t smile in return.
Feeling guilty for putting Jones in what was so obviously an unwelcomed situation, Barnaby said, “Jones, I’m glad you made it.”
“Sorry, sir,” said Jones, body language now unreadable. “Something came up. I couldn’t get here sooner.”
“Nothing serious, I hope.”
“No, sir, just problematic.”
“Need any help sorting it,” said Barnaby, hand now on his sergeant’s shoulder, gently pushing an uncooperative Jones into the house.
“No, it’s nothing I can’t handle.”
Barnaby paused, gaze narrowing in suspicion. He pulled Jones to the side, closing the door before stepping into his sergeant’s personal space. “I can’t help you if you won’t let me.”
“Sir,” said Jones, stepping back, shoulders against the wall. “I don’t want your help. I don’t need your help. Just pack it in, okay.”
Still defensive. Still angry.
Now would not be the right time to push Jones emotionally, the opportunity to walk out the front door too available, too easy. Nodding in agreement, Barnaby stepped to the side, gesturing to his sergeant to move further into the house. Jones hesitated, unsure of himself, before moving forward, Barnaby stepping into line behind him. He could see the anxiety running throughout Jones’s body, the limbs trembling. Barnaby hoped he was doing the right thing, not wanting to divide their growing friendship. Jones was his sergeant, but he was also the closest thing Barnaby had to a friend. Not willing to spend time getting to know other people, Barnaby was content with his own company, the company of his wife, of Sykes. Happy families. But there were times when Barnaby needed male friendship, someone to have a beer with, even if it was Jones. His sergeant was good company, easy to talk to, quick to make a joke. But not today.
Jones walked into the kitchen, hesitating once more, actually taking a step backward, bumping into Barnaby who had stopped behind him. Barnaby became concerned, worried that Jones’s problem might have something to do with Tom Barnaby, and if that were the case, things were going to go bad very quickly. No, that couldn’t be it. Jones had looked troubled, depressed before Barnaby had mentioned Tom and Joyce. But there had to be a reason Jones was so reluctant to see them both, not willing to change yesterday’s plans, hesitant about coming here today.
“Ben!” Joyce Barnaby stood up from the kitchen table, magazine quickly forgotten as she made her way toward Jones, embracing him in a strong grip. “It’s so good to see you.”
“Mrs. Barnaby,” said Jones, unable to return the hug, hands full with flowers and alcohol. “It’s good to see you too.”
Joyce released her hold, stepping back, her gaze giving Jones the once over. “John said you’d been sick with the flu.”
“Is that a polite way of saying I look terrible?”
“You look tired. You haven’t been sleeping have you?”
“Still trying to catch up,” said Jones, handing her the flowers he’d bought. “For you, Mrs. Barnaby.”
“Always the gentleman,” said Joyce, taking the flowers, admiring them, admiring Jones. “They’re beautiful. Thank you.”
“Where’s Mr. Barnaby?”
“Outside helping Sarah work the bar-b-que.”
Throughout the conversation, Barnaby had watched Jones, looking for any sign of anger toward Joyce; there was none. But there also hadn’t been any joy, his face lacking an authentic smile, the expression forced. Jones was putting up a false front, doing his part, behaving in a way Joyce Barnaby had expected.
“I’ll just . . .” Jones nodded toward the back door, quickly moving away.
Barnaby began to follow Jones, stopping when Joyce pulled him back. He raised an eyebrow, questioning her, not liking the question when it came, her face full of concern.
“What’s wrong with Ben?”
“I don’t know,” said Barnaby. “He won’t talk to me.”
“He’s not . . .”
“He told me it was just the flu and I believe him.”
“But he won’t tell you anything else,” said Joyce.
“No, and when I ask, he gets defensive and angry. I don’t want to push him.”
“Do you think he’ll talk to Tom?”
“That’s what I’m hoping.”
.
.
.
But Jones had refused to talk to Tom Barnaby, threatening to leave when Tom pushed a little too hard, questioning Jones in much the same way he would have questioned a suspect. Barnaby, recognising Jones’s volatile body language had put a stop to the conversation, pulling Tom aside, explaining that pushing Jones wasn’t going to help. From that point on, Jones had been unable to keep up the charade that everything in his world was just fine and dandy, everyone now aware of his emotional instability, worried that he was going to break, snap at any moment. Dinner had become an awkward affair, the dialogue scattered, stilted, any attempt to draw Jones into the conversation a failure; short, terse answers an obvious indication that something was wrong. Appetites were lacking, the delicious meal lost to anxiety and concern, the dinner ending abruptly when Sarah Barnaby asked an unchallenging question, one that should have been simple to answer, the response unexpected.
“Ben,” said Sarah. “How’s your Gran?”
And there it was.
Jones’s reaction explaining everything to John Barnaby.
His sergeant’s body sagged, shoulders slumping, expression emotional, no longer able to hide what was bothering him. Barnaby, knowing that Jones would rather walk out than show his emotions in front of everyone, took his sergeant by the elbow, pulling him from his seat, leading him outside. When Tom stood up, Barnaby shook his head, telling his cousin to stay where he was, to give them some time alone.
In the few moments it had taken Barnaby to get Jones outside, his sergeant had gathered his wits together, placing his emotions back behind the wall he’d been struggling to keep upright. He sat Jones down in one of the garden seats, pulling the other chair around so he was facing Jones. Sitting down, knees almost touching the man in front of him, Barnaby refused to beat about the bush, slamming Jones with a question so obvious to Barnaby, it hurt to speak.
“When did your Gran die?”
The question did its job, Jones’s wall crumbling, the strength of it forcing him forward, head down, hands shaking, his refusal to answer more than a symptom of denial.
“You don’t have to hide your emotions from me, Ben,” said Barnaby. “You can talk to me. You know that.”
Voice hoarse, emotional, Jones said, “Grieving may be universal but we must express it in our own unique way. John Barnaby, 1988, Durham University. And I choose to express my grief in silence. In private.”
“To do so, you first need to accept her death.”
“I’m not ready.”
“You can’t ignore what happened. Look what it’s been doing to you. You’re angry, defensive, depressed. You’ve lost weight, you’re not sleeping--”
“I thought denial was the first stage of grief. What I’m feeling is supposed to be natural.”
“Your denial needs to be felt in a healthy way. You need to allow yourself to feel it, allow it to happen. You’re not doing that. You’re fighting it all the way and that isn’t good for you.”
Lifting his head, Jones began to laugh, an emotional sob interrupting, his hand covering his eyes. “I can’t. I’m not ready to feel that kind of emotion. I don’t want to feel it.”
“You need to feel it.”
Jones lowered his head, a sigh escaping, left hand holding its position, hiding his eyes.
Shifting forward in his seat, Barnaby asked, “When did your Gran die?”
“Last Friday. Massive stroke apparently. No chance to say goodbye.”
Barnaby nodded in understanding, “Her funeral was yesterday.”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Jones lowered his hand and look up, his eyes wet. “This is why. I knew you would push me to feel something I’m not ready to feel.”
“Is that such a bad thing?”
Looking away, Jones said nothing.
Barnaby recognised the signs; Jones was shutting down. He couldn’t allow that, denial was a natural response but Jones was doing more than denying his grandmother’s death, he was trying to erase it. He had to force Jones to break down, hating himself for what he was about to say.
“You should have told me,” said Barnaby. “I would have liked to have gone to the funeral.”
Jones doubled over with the grief, hands hiding his emotions. Barnaby leaned forward, arms embracing his sergeant, pulling the younger man close. The physical contact, something Jones had obviously not allowed to happen in the past week, left him struggling for control.
“Ben, let it out.”
And he did, shoulders hitching, chest heaving as he fought through the tears to take a breath. Barnaby held tight, unwilling to let Jones go.
It was a start. A step in the right direction for Jones.
Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four | Chapter Five | Chapter Six | Chapter Seven
Master Fan Fiction List
Fandom: Midsomer Murders
Genre: Hurt/Comfort.
Rating: PG
Summary: 5 times DS Jones was whumped and 1 time he wasn't.
Main Characters: DS Ben Jones, DCI John Barnaby, Sarah Barnaby, Tom Barnaby, Joyce Barnaby and Sykes.
Disclaimer: Created and based on the characters and books by Caroline Graham. A Bentley production for ITV.
Spoilers: Set after 15x4 'Death and the Divas'.
Word Count: 3,746
Status: Each chapter can be read as a stand-alone story. Complete
6. The Necessary Angst-Ridden Situation
Summary: It’s natural to grieve when someone you love dies, but how do you grieve when you refuse to accept their death.
John Barnaby, bored and restless on a quiet Friday afternoon was ready to chuck it all in and go home. His gaze shifted between the pile of must-be-completed-before-Monday paperwork on his desk and the exit. He wanted to go home, weekend visitors arriving in less than an hour, the paperwork the only thing keeping him from leaving. Jones, a well-trained lackey, obedient and loyal, normally did the paperwork, keeping on top of it on a daily basis but Barnaby had been without his sergeant for over a week now, a nasty case of influenza putting Jones into a near permanent horizontal position, incomplete paperwork growing into a resentful pile.
Needing to make a quick decision, not wanting to spend all afternoon making up his mind, Barnaby thought of what the consequences of not doing the paperwork would be. Repercussions looking not too bad, he made his decision; can’t have Jones feeling redundant when he returned to work on Monday. Child-like smile creeping over his features, Barnaby picked up the tower of paperwork, files stumbling in his grasp and leant forward, his intention to put it where it belonged; on his sergeant’s desk. He glanced around the office, the room mostly empty, searching for unwanted witnesses, spotting someone he hadn’t expected to see today. Ben Jones, pale, thinner than he was a week ago, his expression unreadable, walked into the office.
Caught in the act, Barnaby fell back into his seat, paperwork collapsing into an untidy heap on his desk. Someone was trying to tell him something. A subtle omen if there ever was one. He opened the top folder, gaze skimming the contents, a pretence that he was working, not allocating an unwanted task back to his sergeant.
Stopping in front of his desk, Jones smiled, green eyes in disagreement with his facial expression, “Sir?”
“Jones,” said Barnaby, gaze lifting, look of surprise not quite believable. “I wasn’t expecting you back until Monday.”
“Thought I’d get started on that paperwork,” said Jones, nodding toward the mound of uncoordinated folders on Barnaby’s desk.
Barnaby nodded, the movement riddled with guilt. “Actually, I was just making a start on it.”
“Yeah, well, now you don’t have to.”
“I knew you were good for something, Jones,” said Barnaby.
Coming around to Barnaby’s side of the desk, Jones’s smile faltered. Barnaby regretted his words, his sergeant’s mind and body still under the control of physical exhaustion, not yet ready for their usual playful banter. He watched as Jones gathered the folders into an awkward embrace before returning to his desk, dropping into his chair.
Narrowing his eyes, Barnaby studied his sergeant, taking a few moments before making a sympathetic effort to make up for his previous comment, “You look tired.”
Ignoring the statement, Jones pulled the top folder from the pile, opening it, and frowning down at the sight before him, said, “This should have been done on Wednesday.”
Raising his eyebrows in mock surprise, Barnaby said, “Really.”
Pen in hand, Jones began to work, quickly and quietly filling in the form before putting it to the side, picking up another one, repeating the process.
Feeling dismissed, Barnaby considered taking advantage of the opportunity given to him and going home, paperwork now in Jones’s more than capable hands. Lips pursed, he decided to wait a few more minutes, not rush out the door as soon as he was able, leaving Jones to feel like a used and abused lackey. Looking for something to do, Barnaby spotted the tea lady, wheels of her trolley screaming in protest. She paused, eyebrow rising, asking a repetitive question. Tea? Not for Barnaby, but Jones looked as though he could do with a good dose of caffeine.
“Coffee?”
Refusing to look up, Jones said, “No, thank you.”
The tea lady moved on, Jones’s response giving her a satisfactory answer.
More bored than he had been, Barnaby decided to converse with his sergeant, anything to pass the time, even if Jones’s responses were mere grunts of frustration when constantly interrupted; find joy in the little things.
“You got over the flu all right then?”
Barnaby noticed the slight pause, pen hovering before continuing. “Yeah.”
Everything shifted. Hairs tingling on the back of his neck, an uncomfortable sensation crawling along his spine, Barnaby got the sudden impression that something wasn’t right in the world of Ben Jones. Feeling the worry, the concern beginning to nag at his insides, stomach feeling as though he’d eaten something rotten, Barnaby asked, “Everything all right, Jones?”
“Everything’s fine, sir,” said Jones, still not looking up.
“It’s just . . .” Barnaby hesitated, taking a calming breath. “You seem a bit off.”
“I’ve been off. Flu and all that.”
“Right,” said Barnaby, nodding in agreement before getting to the point. “Just seems like there’s more to it than that.”
Looking up, Jones lowered his pen, paperwork forgotten, his expression suspicious, challenging. A side to his sergeant Barnaby didn’t see very often. “Don’t psychoanalyse me, sir.”
A definite confirmation that something was wrong. Being a detective, Barnaby decided it was time to detect, find out what was bothering Jones.
“Why not?”
“Why not?”
“Yes,” said Barnaby. “Why not?”
“Because there’s no reason to,” said Jones, his mood changing, becoming defensive. “There’s nothing bothering me. I’m fine. Just tired.”
His sergeant, never a good liar, looked more than tired. He looked wrong.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“Talk about what, sir?”
“Whatever it is that’s bothering you.”
“Sir! There’s nothing bothering me. I was sick with flu. That’s all.”
Barnaby nodded, “No. That’s not all. There’s something else.”
“What are you trying to say,” said Jones. “That I’m lying?”
“Of course not. But you’re not being truthful. To yourself or to me.”
“How’s this for truthful? Mind your own business.”
Barnaby smiled but there was no humour behind the expression, his patience beginning to wane, his anger growing. He leaned forward, placing his forearms on the desk and watched his sergeant, his scrutiny causing Jones to fidget, his sergeant’s body language becoming passive.
“It’s my business if it affects your ability to do your job.”
“It won’t, sir.”
“So, there is something wrong.”
“No, sir. There isn’t.”
Thinking it was the end of the conversation, Jones returned to his paperwork, eyes glazed, hands trembling so much he held the pen in a grip that turned his knuckles white. Barnaby decided not to push it, Jones obviously not in the mood to surrender any significant information as to what was bothering him. Whatever it was, it was serious. Oh no. No. No. No. Feeling like someone punched him in the gut, breath stolen, chest tight with an ache so severe, Barnaby thought his world was turning upside down.
“Ben?”
Jones let out an aggravated breath, his tension building, stubborn gaze downward. “Sir?”
“Are you . . . sick?”
“Not anymore.”
“I mean . . . Is it something more serious than the flu?”
Jones, confused by the question, looked up, taking a moment to understand, his expression dropping. “No, sir. I’m fine.”
Barnaby actually believed him. If it wasn’t physical, it had to be emotional. “Then what is it?”
Expression much like a puppy on its deathbed, Jones said, “Sir, please. Can you just leave it alone?”
“Then promise me one thing, Jones,” said Barnaby, defeat sending him slumping back into his seat, body sagging. “When you’re ready to talk, you’ll come to me.”
“If it keeps you out of my business.”
Insubordinate sod.
“Jones, just so we understand each other,” said Barnaby. “Drop the attitude.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” said Jones, fingers of his right hand rubbing painfully against his forehead as he let out a long, suffering sigh. “I didn’t mean . . . please. Just leave it.”
“Headache?”
“Yeah.”
“Go back home, Jones. I’ll do the paperwork.”
“Sir, if I spend another day at home . . . I now know the name of every character on EastEnders.”
“That’s a lot,” said Barnaby, shifting uncomfortably in his seat when he noticed the look his sergeant was giving him. “Sykes likes to watch it.”
“Of course he does, sir.”
Barnaby relaxed, the tension between the two of them easing. Maybe it was for the better that he leave it alone, give his sergeant time to sort himself out, allow him to talk when he was ready because, right now, Jones wasn’t a willing participant in the conversation. Jones wasn’t ready to talk, nothing Barnaby could say that would get him to the stage of letting go.
Knowing a change of topic was required, a subject that would be more interesting to Jones, Barnaby said, “I’ve got some news that should cheer you up.”
Jones grimaced, “Do I look like I need cheering up?”
“Now that you mention it . . . Tom and Joyce are down for the weekend.”
“That’s supposed to cheer me up, is it, sir?”
Not the response he was expecting. Even more worried, and now slightly confused, Barnaby said, “I was going to call you tonight, but since you’re here. We’re having a small get-together tomorrow. Some of Tom and Joyce’s friends are going to come over. Drinks. Finger food. Joyce’s vacation movies. That sort of thing. Tom was hoping you’d come.”
His expression turning sullen, guilty, Jones said, “I can’t.”
“They’re looking forward to seeing you,” said Barnaby.
“I’ve got something else on.”
“Bring her with you.”
Jones laughed, the sound empty, hollow. “I can’t do that.”
“Why not? We don’t bite.”
Shaking his head, Jones looked downward, staring at his hands. “Just . . . no.”
“Change your plans then.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not? I’m sure she’ll understand.”
“Sir . . . I can’t change my plans. I can’t bring her with me. I can’t . . .”
“Sunday then,” said Barnaby. “Dinner. Just the five of us. You can bring your . . . friend.”
Wiping his hands over his face, through his hair, the movement aggressive, painful almost, Jones sat further back into his chair, fingers gripping the back of his neck, holding it in a tight uncompromising grip.
The sight was distressing for Barnaby. To know that something was wrong and to not be able to do anything to help, Jones unwilling to accept Barnaby’s help making the situation worse, more emotional. Barnaby sat forward once more, forearms back on the desk, hands clasped together and perceptive enough to know the answer to his suggestion, said, “If you don’t come on Sunday, they’re going to show up on your doorstep.”
“You’re right, sir,” said Jones, hands falling to his sides, body language defeated.
“As always, Jones.”
Jones stood up, stepping away from his chair, his desk, unable to keep still. “I should go home.”
“Sunday? Three o’clock.”
It was like pulling teeth.
“Yes, sir.”
“Jones?”
Pausing, Jones turned around, “Sir?”
Barnaby frowned, Jones’s expression shifting, changing too quickly, his mood turning sombre.
“If you need to talk before Sunday, call me.”
“Yes, sir.”
Barnaby watched as Jones left the office, his sergeant ignoring those around him, pushing through a small crowd of uniformed officers. Mind churning, psychology degree useful, Barnaby came to a sudden realisation. Jones seemed to be depressed. Not a word Barnaby wanted to use, but it fit, the underlying cause of the depression unknown. Not for long though, Barnaby’s intention to find the cause, come up with a solution to help his sergeant through an emotional crisis that had left him in a mood so low . . . no, Jones wasn’t going to go through it alone. Barnaby smiled, the knowledge that Jones wasn’t going to be able to say no to Tom Barnaby giving him a small amount of comfort.
.
.
.
Standing at the front window, John Barnaby watched the street, his driveway, looking for a familiar car; Ben Jones was an hour late. His sergeant wasn’t coming, Barnaby was sure of that, opportunity to find out what was wrong now gone. If he thought Jones would answer, he would call him; berate him for changing his plans, staying at home, tail between his legs, instead of showing up on the Barnaby’s doorstep, bottle of red wine in hand. Not yet ready to turn away, to dismiss his sergeant, Barnaby continued to wait, deciding to give Jones another ten minutes before giving up and returning to his guests.
Heart pounding, worry grating at his nerves, Barnaby stepped back from the window. Pivoting on his heels, he saw movement in his peripheral, Jones’s Ford Mondeo pulling into the driveway. About to move toward the front door, Barnaby paused as he noticed his sergeant’s reluctance to get out of the car. Jones sat still, seconds passing before he leant forward, forehead resting against the steering wheel. It was obvious to Barnaby that his sergeant didn’t want to be here, given no choice in the matter, pushed into a social gathering he wanted no part of; this was going to make things more difficult, Jones’s mood no doubt more defensive that passive.
Seconds becoming minutes, Barnaby decided he could watch no more, stepping to the front door, opening it. He pretended not to notice his sergeant’s body jerking upward in surprise, unaware Barnaby had been watching him. Barnaby waited patiently on the front door step as Jones got out of the car, as he began walking to the front door, bringing with him a bouquet of flowers and an expensive bottle of Scotch. The sight of jeans and shirt showed Barnaby how much weight Jones had lost over the last week. Pushing the thought aside, Barnaby smiled in greeting, not failing to notice when Jones didn’t smile in return.
Feeling guilty for putting Jones in what was so obviously an unwelcomed situation, Barnaby said, “Jones, I’m glad you made it.”
“Sorry, sir,” said Jones, body language now unreadable. “Something came up. I couldn’t get here sooner.”
“Nothing serious, I hope.”
“No, sir, just problematic.”
“Need any help sorting it,” said Barnaby, hand now on his sergeant’s shoulder, gently pushing an uncooperative Jones into the house.
“No, it’s nothing I can’t handle.”
Barnaby paused, gaze narrowing in suspicion. He pulled Jones to the side, closing the door before stepping into his sergeant’s personal space. “I can’t help you if you won’t let me.”
“Sir,” said Jones, stepping back, shoulders against the wall. “I don’t want your help. I don’t need your help. Just pack it in, okay.”
Still defensive. Still angry.
Now would not be the right time to push Jones emotionally, the opportunity to walk out the front door too available, too easy. Nodding in agreement, Barnaby stepped to the side, gesturing to his sergeant to move further into the house. Jones hesitated, unsure of himself, before moving forward, Barnaby stepping into line behind him. He could see the anxiety running throughout Jones’s body, the limbs trembling. Barnaby hoped he was doing the right thing, not wanting to divide their growing friendship. Jones was his sergeant, but he was also the closest thing Barnaby had to a friend. Not willing to spend time getting to know other people, Barnaby was content with his own company, the company of his wife, of Sykes. Happy families. But there were times when Barnaby needed male friendship, someone to have a beer with, even if it was Jones. His sergeant was good company, easy to talk to, quick to make a joke. But not today.
Jones walked into the kitchen, hesitating once more, actually taking a step backward, bumping into Barnaby who had stopped behind him. Barnaby became concerned, worried that Jones’s problem might have something to do with Tom Barnaby, and if that were the case, things were going to go bad very quickly. No, that couldn’t be it. Jones had looked troubled, depressed before Barnaby had mentioned Tom and Joyce. But there had to be a reason Jones was so reluctant to see them both, not willing to change yesterday’s plans, hesitant about coming here today.
“Ben!” Joyce Barnaby stood up from the kitchen table, magazine quickly forgotten as she made her way toward Jones, embracing him in a strong grip. “It’s so good to see you.”
“Mrs. Barnaby,” said Jones, unable to return the hug, hands full with flowers and alcohol. “It’s good to see you too.”
Joyce released her hold, stepping back, her gaze giving Jones the once over. “John said you’d been sick with the flu.”
“Is that a polite way of saying I look terrible?”
“You look tired. You haven’t been sleeping have you?”
“Still trying to catch up,” said Jones, handing her the flowers he’d bought. “For you, Mrs. Barnaby.”
“Always the gentleman,” said Joyce, taking the flowers, admiring them, admiring Jones. “They’re beautiful. Thank you.”
“Where’s Mr. Barnaby?”
“Outside helping Sarah work the bar-b-que.”
Throughout the conversation, Barnaby had watched Jones, looking for any sign of anger toward Joyce; there was none. But there also hadn’t been any joy, his face lacking an authentic smile, the expression forced. Jones was putting up a false front, doing his part, behaving in a way Joyce Barnaby had expected.
“I’ll just . . .” Jones nodded toward the back door, quickly moving away.
Barnaby began to follow Jones, stopping when Joyce pulled him back. He raised an eyebrow, questioning her, not liking the question when it came, her face full of concern.
“What’s wrong with Ben?”
“I don’t know,” said Barnaby. “He won’t talk to me.”
“He’s not . . .”
“He told me it was just the flu and I believe him.”
“But he won’t tell you anything else,” said Joyce.
“No, and when I ask, he gets defensive and angry. I don’t want to push him.”
“Do you think he’ll talk to Tom?”
“That’s what I’m hoping.”
.
.
.
But Jones had refused to talk to Tom Barnaby, threatening to leave when Tom pushed a little too hard, questioning Jones in much the same way he would have questioned a suspect. Barnaby, recognising Jones’s volatile body language had put a stop to the conversation, pulling Tom aside, explaining that pushing Jones wasn’t going to help. From that point on, Jones had been unable to keep up the charade that everything in his world was just fine and dandy, everyone now aware of his emotional instability, worried that he was going to break, snap at any moment. Dinner had become an awkward affair, the dialogue scattered, stilted, any attempt to draw Jones into the conversation a failure; short, terse answers an obvious indication that something was wrong. Appetites were lacking, the delicious meal lost to anxiety and concern, the dinner ending abruptly when Sarah Barnaby asked an unchallenging question, one that should have been simple to answer, the response unexpected.
“Ben,” said Sarah. “How’s your Gran?”
And there it was.
Jones’s reaction explaining everything to John Barnaby.
His sergeant’s body sagged, shoulders slumping, expression emotional, no longer able to hide what was bothering him. Barnaby, knowing that Jones would rather walk out than show his emotions in front of everyone, took his sergeant by the elbow, pulling him from his seat, leading him outside. When Tom stood up, Barnaby shook his head, telling his cousin to stay where he was, to give them some time alone.
In the few moments it had taken Barnaby to get Jones outside, his sergeant had gathered his wits together, placing his emotions back behind the wall he’d been struggling to keep upright. He sat Jones down in one of the garden seats, pulling the other chair around so he was facing Jones. Sitting down, knees almost touching the man in front of him, Barnaby refused to beat about the bush, slamming Jones with a question so obvious to Barnaby, it hurt to speak.
“When did your Gran die?”
The question did its job, Jones’s wall crumbling, the strength of it forcing him forward, head down, hands shaking, his refusal to answer more than a symptom of denial.
“You don’t have to hide your emotions from me, Ben,” said Barnaby. “You can talk to me. You know that.”
Voice hoarse, emotional, Jones said, “Grieving may be universal but we must express it in our own unique way. John Barnaby, 1988, Durham University. And I choose to express my grief in silence. In private.”
“To do so, you first need to accept her death.”
“I’m not ready.”
“You can’t ignore what happened. Look what it’s been doing to you. You’re angry, defensive, depressed. You’ve lost weight, you’re not sleeping--”
“I thought denial was the first stage of grief. What I’m feeling is supposed to be natural.”
“Your denial needs to be felt in a healthy way. You need to allow yourself to feel it, allow it to happen. You’re not doing that. You’re fighting it all the way and that isn’t good for you.”
Lifting his head, Jones began to laugh, an emotional sob interrupting, his hand covering his eyes. “I can’t. I’m not ready to feel that kind of emotion. I don’t want to feel it.”
“You need to feel it.”
Jones lowered his head, a sigh escaping, left hand holding its position, hiding his eyes.
Shifting forward in his seat, Barnaby asked, “When did your Gran die?”
“Last Friday. Massive stroke apparently. No chance to say goodbye.”
Barnaby nodded in understanding, “Her funeral was yesterday.”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Jones lowered his hand and look up, his eyes wet. “This is why. I knew you would push me to feel something I’m not ready to feel.”
“Is that such a bad thing?”
Looking away, Jones said nothing.
Barnaby recognised the signs; Jones was shutting down. He couldn’t allow that, denial was a natural response but Jones was doing more than denying his grandmother’s death, he was trying to erase it. He had to force Jones to break down, hating himself for what he was about to say.
“You should have told me,” said Barnaby. “I would have liked to have gone to the funeral.”
Jones doubled over with the grief, hands hiding his emotions. Barnaby leaned forward, arms embracing his sergeant, pulling the younger man close. The physical contact, something Jones had obviously not allowed to happen in the past week, left him struggling for control.
“Ben, let it out.”
And he did, shoulders hitching, chest heaving as he fought through the tears to take a breath. Barnaby held tight, unwilling to let Jones go.
It was a start. A step in the right direction for Jones.
Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four | Chapter Five | Chapter Six | Chapter Seven
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