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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 and Kate Wilding.
Disclaimer: Created and based on the characters and books by Caroline Graham. A Bentley production for ITV.
Spoilers: Set during season 15.
Word Count: 3,980
Status: Each chapter can be read as a stand-alone story.
5. The Required Shooting
Summary: It's a long drive to the hospital when your detective sergeant has been shot by an aggressive pig farmer who had been intent on making a killing.
Breath caught in his throat, his lungs hungry for oxygen, John Barnaby struggled to breathe. Death had never felt so close, its touch caressing his flesh, chilling his bones, squeezing his heart. His chest, so tight with fear and worry, ached with a passion, his heart pounding painfully against his ribs not helping. He was unable to move, fight-or-flight response seemingly broken; one for the psychologists as Jones would say. He quickly glanced toward Jones. His sergeant, sent to the floor by a blast from a single-trigger over-under shotgun was slumped against the wall, face hidden, limbs in a tangle, blood pooling beneath him; unconscious or dead, Barnaby didn't know, wasn’t sure he wanted to know. He had never lost a colleague before, not this way, not in such a physical and violent manner, the thought of the loss tearing at his insides.
Barnaby knew it was all part of the job, confrontation between a murderer and a copper always a volatile situation but to actually witness this kind of violence against one of his own, against Ben Jones, a man well liked by everyone, including criminals . . . the nightmares would last a life time, Barnaby was sure of that. If he lived a lifetime. The situation he was in dictating that living another thirty years was very unlikely, the probability impossible.
But fate could be a fickle thing at the best of times . . .
Body frozen, his muscles twitching with adrenaline and fear, Barnaby closed his eyes and waited for the inevitable, for this man to take his life. His last words to his wife, a declaration of love, gave him some comfort at least. Death expected, a slow time coming, Barnaby, to his surprise, began to grow impatient, wishing it were over, the present taking too long to become the past.
The shotgun blast was deafening, the sound causing his body to flinch, to hunch over toward the right, an attempt to get out of the way. He could smell the cordite, feel the blood splatter across his clothing, his face, bits of bone scraping against his skin. His body in shock, Barnaby waited for the pain, for the chill to fill his bones, his innards. He waited for death.
When it didn’t come for him, Barnaby opened his eyes and gazed downward, searching his own body for the gunshot wound that should have killed him instantly. Not usually so thick, it took Barnaby longer than it should have to realise he hadn’t suffered a fatal gunshot wound. He wasn’t dead or injured. Far from it in fact. Glancing toward his sergeant, Barnaby prayed Jones hadn’t been shot a second time. Dead or not, the pool of blood beneath Jones had stopped spreading. Barnaby’s heart sank, his gut feeling heavy with the weight of grief.
Blinking his eyes against the sting of tears, Barnaby turned back to the gunman. Joseph Hanson lay dead on the floor, face gone, the back of his skull spread across the floor behind him. The sight left Barnaby dazed and confused. If the man’s intention had been to take his own life, why had he taken Jones with him? Why couldn’t he have left Jones out of it? Questions he would never be able to answer.
Body filled with dread, Barnaby moved toward Jones, kneeling in front him. He reached for his sergeant, trembling fingers pressing against the carotid pulse point. Shoulders slumping with relief, a smile spreading across his pale features, Barnaby could feel a soft heartbeat beneath skin clammy with shock. Placing his hand against the back of Jones’s head, Barnaby gently lowered him to the floor, straightening tangled limbs. There was no resistance, Jones unconscious, his body refusing to return to a world filled with nothing but fear and pain.
Pulling Jones’s jacket to the side, Barnaby’s relief was short-lived, his smile quickly crumbling, his heart clenching with fear at the sight of so much blood. Time had barely existed since the first shot and for such a short amount of time, Jones had already lost too much. Fingers, still trembling with fear and shock, lifted the blood sodden shirt away from the wound an inch above Jones’s right hip, tugging it from trousers almost soaked to the knee with blood. So much blood.
The wound, not as large as Barnaby had expected, looked ugly, flesh torn, purple bruising already forming. The buckshot, spreading out as soon as it had exited the barrel, left an entry wound the size of a small child’s fist, a spattering of buckshot wounds surrounding the main injury. Blood continued to flow, a steady rivulet that needed stopping.
Think, Barnaby. Think.
Standing up onto unsteady legs, his entire body shaking with anxiety, Barnaby began to search for something he could use to stop the bleeding. He considered calling an ambulance but felt it a waste of time. They were on the other side of Newton Magna, at least twenty minutes away from the nearest ambulance station. Taking in consideration the return journey, Barnaby didn’t think Jones would last that long. Not only would it be quicker if he drove his sergeant to the hospital, it would also give Jones a better chance of survival.
Barnaby hesitated, a feeling of doubt overwhelming him. He looked back over his shoulder, gaze finding Jones’s still form. Stomach bared, the gunshot wound intimidating, the blood still flowing. No, it was the right thing to do. First, he had to find something to stop the blood flow or at least kept it at a bare minimum.
Quickly finding a small bathroom, Barnaby snatched a white towel from the railing on the wall, not caring if it was dirty or clean. It would do. Anything would do. He returned to Jones, dropping to his knees beside his sergeant, pressing the towel against Jones’s side. A soft grunt of surprise escaped Jones, his eyes snapping open.
Barnaby decided it was time to move because a conscious Jones would be easier to get into the car than an unconscious Jones. Placing his right arm under Jones’s shoulders, Barnaby lifted his sergeant up into a sitting position. The result was unexpected, Jones’s response lethargic, barely there. Jones wasn’t feeling a lot of pain and that was not a good sign. When Jones’s head fell back against Barnaby’s shoulder, he took a moment to re-check his pulse, rapid but weak. So close, he could feel his sergeant’s shallow breath against his face, could notice the sweat forming on cool, pale, clammy skin. Things had just become serious, the symptoms of shock worsening, becoming life threatening.
They had to move.
Now.
“Ben,” said Barnaby, gently slapping the side of Jones’s face in an attempt to get him focused. “You have to stand up. We have to go. Now.”
Jones let out a deep sigh, a grimace of pain crossing his features, and closed his eyes.
Without hesitation, Barnaby applied more pressure to the wound, his sergeant’s eyes once again snapping open. A whisper of profanity from Jones before he turned his gaze toward Barnaby.
“You have to stand up, Ben. No arguments. No excuses. Just do it. Get up!”
Barnaby knew his words hadn’t been convincing. It was the fear in his voice that had gotten Jones moving, his sergeant quickly understanding that something was seriously wrong. Jones didn’t ask any questions. He didn’t offer any excuses. He simply did as Barnaby told him. But as much as Jones tried – and he tried – he didn’t have the strength, knees buckling beneath him with every attempt to stand up.
Knowing he was going to need both hands, Barnaby pushed the towel under the band of Jones’s trousers and taking an assertive hold he pushed upward with his knees, bringing his sergeant with him. Barnaby felt the pain pulling at his back, the muscles beginning to spasm. Jones was heavier than he looked, almost a dead weight.
They began to move through the cottage, the long hallway toward the front door, Jones stumbling all the way, Barnaby straining his back to keep his sergeant from falling. Progress was slow but they eventually made it to the car, Jones becoming weaker with every step. Barnaby leant Jones against the car, using the solid object as a crutch, keeping Jones upright with one hand while using the other to open the car door. Gently lowering Jones into the passenger seat Barnaby realised he was about to lose Jones, his sergeant’s consciousness fading. In an attempt to put Jones into the shock position, Barnaby lowered the seat back, placing Jones in a horizontal position, lifting his knees, elevating his legs. Could be better but it would have to do.
Again, Barnaby hesitated, still unsure if he was doing the right thing. His worried gaze travelled over Jones’s body, finally coming to a rest on his sergeant’s face, the skin so pale. The sight of bluish lips almost stopped Barnaby’s heart, the fear biting into his chest. Shock. Plain, simple and it could be a killer. If Jones went into hypovolemic shock, he wouldn’t make it to the hospital. In a panic, Barnaby slammed the door shut, Jones’s body flinching away in surprise; not yet unconscious.
Rushing to the other side of the car, Barnaby opened the door and practically threw himself into the driver’s seat. Lacking a blanket to keep Jones warm, Barnaby started the car and turned on the heater. After one more glance at Jones, he released the hand break and slammed his foot down on the accelerator.
Leaving Joseph Hanson to wallow in death and self-pity, Barnaby sped away from the cottage, his sergeant at death’s door in the passenger seat.
.
.
.
Nerves shredded by fear and frustration, Barnaby drove like a madman; car engine roaring, siren blaring, the speed limit broken many times over. Beside him, Jones laid unconscious, breath so shallow Barnaby was unsure if his sergeant was still breathing. Barnaby was losing hope, his grief strangling him, his own breath harsh. If they didn’t make it, if Jones . . . Taking a deep breath, he glanced toward his sergeant before returning his gaze back to the long stretch of road that would take them straight into Causton.
Jones had surprised him, not exactly what he had expected when Tom Barnaby had informed him that Ben Jones had the right stuff. Smart, loyal, very trusting and with a sense of humour that left John Barnaby shaking his head in confusion on the best of days. This man who enjoyed the simple things in life – never before had Barnaby seen anyone take such joy in forcing open a door - was going to die and Barnaby could do nothing about it.
He felt so helpless, so afraid.
Barnaby leant to the left and raised a hand sticky with congealing blood, his emotions building, breaking, the fear tearing through him. He placed the back of his hand in front of Jones’s mouth and waited for what felt like an eternity.
A small, ragged puff of breath.
Overwhelmed with relief, Barnaby choked on the emotion rising into his throat. Jones was still alive, but for how long, Barnaby didn’t know.
Eyes on the road, Barnaby moved his hand upward, his own heated flesh against Jones’s forehead; skin cold, sweaty, clammy with shock, even in the suffocating heat the car heater had created. He returned his hand to Jones’s side, once again applying pressure to the wound. Jones moved beneath him; the weak attempt to move away from the source of pain a failure. Becoming restless, Jones lifted his head, his legs shifting, knees hitting the dashboard. In his weakened state, he didn’t get very far, body quickly becoming still.
Barnaby, heart in his stomach, feared the worse.
Up ahead, congesting traffic, all but one vehicle scattering out of his way. Coming up behind the car in front, Barnaby realised the driver was refraining from obeying the road rules, plodding along at a sedate pace. Fearing that Jones was no longer with him, Barnaby – with no intention of slowing down – pressed the heel of his right hand against the horn in the steering wheel; he wasn’t going to lose this game of reversed chicken.
Left hand now gripping Jones’s belt, keeping his sergeant in place, Barnaby expertly manouvered his car around the vehicle, back wheels screaming along the edge of the road. Jones began to slip away from him, body moving with the momentum of the car. Barnaby heard a soft, painful grunt as Jones hit the passenger door. Still alive. Barnaby struggled to pull Jones back into a horizontal position, losing his grip on the blood soaked clothing.
Minutes away from Causton General Hospital, Barnaby had to slow down, the traffic stubborn, almost coming to a stop as they tried to move out of his way. He could feel his heart breaking. He wasn’t going to give up now. Not now. They were so close. Barnaby snapped the steering wheel to the right, driving the car into the oncoming traffic.
Drivers panicked, horns sounded and cars moved out of his way.
Pulling up outside the Emergency Department, Barnaby slammed his foot on the brake, Jones almost sliding off the seat as a result. A funny sight if things weren’t so serious. Pressing down on the horn, Barnaby, wincing at the sound, refused to let up until someone with medical training came to his aid. He didn’t have to wait long. Seconds had barely passed before a female nurse was opening the passenger door, reaching in toward his sergeant, fingers pressing against the pulse point in Jones’s neck.
Expecting the worse, Barnaby held his breath, releasing it when the nurse called out over her shoulder. Blood pounding through his ears, Barnaby couldn’t hear what she was saying. She turned back to him, her mouth moving, her voice muffled.
“What happened?”
“He was shot,” said Barnaby, his voice shaking, cracking.
Everything seemed to happen at once. A small crowd of medical personnel removed Jones from the car, his body limp as they placed him onto a gurney, blood persistently dripping from his side. Barnaby, not wanting to be left behind, followed as they disappeared through a set of sliding doors, running to keep up. Keys left in the ignition, engine still running; someone else would move his car.
Calmer than Barnaby felt they should be, their emotions controlled, the medical staff rushed Jones through the waiting room, through the security doors and into one of the main trauma rooms. Barnaby, his adrenaline diminishing, his fear growing and unwilling to lose sight of his sergeant, kept pace with the gurney.
They were quick; stripping Jones of his clothing, inserting IV’s into both arms, placing a pulse monitor on his right forefinger, a blood pressure cuff around his left arm. One nurse came toward Barnaby, asking the victim’s name.
Barnaby could only whisper, his voice choked with emotion, “Ben Jones. Detective Sergeant Ben Jones.”
“Has he been admitted to this hospital before?”
“What?”
“If he’s been admitted on another occasion we’ll have his medical history on record,” said the nurse. “Blood type for example.”
“A Positive,” said Barnaby, thankful for the distraction, even if it was only momentary. “And yes, almost two years ago, concussion. He had to get at least eight stitches. Stayed overnight. He didn’t--”
With a thank you and a smile of understanding on her face, the nurse walked away, speaking to the doctor before finding the closest computer terminal, fingers dancing across the keyboard.
Distraction gone, Barnaby listened to the conversation between nurses and doctors, their words blunt and honest, one particular phrase loud and clear to Barnaby; hypovolemic shock. They were losing him. Barnaby felt his legs weaken. Collapsing into the nearest chair, he removed his phone, finding a name in the contact list, fingers vibrating with anxiety making it difficult. He couldn’t do this alone. He needed his own support. When the call went through, he struggled to speak, “Sarah . . .”
.
.
.
Scared and confused, Barnaby had lost control of the situation, his sergeant’s life in someone else’s hands. He had no knowledge of what was happening; only that Jones was now in surgery, death still knocking on his front door. It left him feeling helpless, unable to do anything but wait. With a deep breath of impending grief, Barnaby lowered his head, blood stained fingers wiping the moisture from his eyes.
Analysing his emotions, Barnaby couldn’t understand his reaction, Jones more of a colleague than a friend. He put it all down to adrenaline, fear and shock, almost losing his own life. If Hanson hadn’t turned the shotgun on himself. A tremor of fear ran along Barnaby’s spine, the emotion expected.
Brain scrambled, emotional one moment, confused and detached the next, Barnaby realised he was trying to distance himself, unwilling to admit, even to himself that he had grown attached to his sergeant and wasn’t prepared to treat Jones’s forthcoming death as part of the job. Jones deserved better.
Obvious denial. The first stage of grief. He didn’t want to grieve, easier to pretend he didn’t care, harder to break down. Emotions running unchecked, Barnaby rested his head in the palms of his hands, choking on the sob rising in his throat, chest tight with grief.
“John.”
This is what he had wanted, his wife, her support, but he couldn’t stand up, muscles weak, trembling with emotion. He lowered his hands, eyes red, face pale, unable to voice what he wanted to say, his emotions speaking for him. Barnaby watched through blurred vision as she rushed toward him, her own features reflecting what he was feeling. He’d given her the wrong impression.
He could feel her hands on him, her warm flesh against his face, ignoring the blood on his skin, “Oh, John. I’m so sorry.”
Barnaby felt terrible, emotions keeping him from correcting his mistake. He needed to calm down. He had to distract himself, stop thinking the worse. Think of something else. Anything else. Denial, that’s the key. Deny. Distract. Taking a deep breath, swallowing the grief that refused to back down, Barnaby began to talk.
“No. I’m sorry, no. I didn’t mean,” said Barnaby. “He’s in surgery.”
Sarah sat down in the chair next to her husband, her hands gripping his, not wanting to let go. “Have they told you anything? Is he going to be all right?”
Barnaby shook his head. “I don’t know. He lost so much blood. Hypovolemic shock.”
A distraction, his wife forcing him to focus on something else, “John. What happened?”
“It was routine. Talk to the family, the friends of the victim. Joseph Hanson, friend of the deceased. His front door was open. Jones went in first . . .” Barnaby shook his head, closing his eyes, gathering his thoughts, his emotions, the shotgun blast now on repeat somewhere in the back of his mind. “First sign of trouble, Jones always goes first. I don’t ask and he doesn’t stop to think about it, he just does it. We went into the living room. Hanson shot him. No provocation. He just shot him. I thought he was dead. Hanson turned the gun on me. I don’t know why. Don’t think I’ll ever know why. Not unless he was the murderer. Hanson shot himself instead of me.”
When Sarah wrapped her arms around him, Barnaby responded, holding her tight. He could feel the emotions trembling through her limbs. She was only just keeping it together, fond of Jones, his company enjoyed. His sergeant had brought her flowers when she’d arrived in Midsomer, a friendship assured. She spoke, her breath warm against the side of his face, “Have you called Ben’s grandmother?”
Pulling away from his wife, his eyes wide with shock, Barnaby shook his head. “I can’t, not until I know. Good news or bad.”
“John, she needs to know.”
“I know,” said Barnaby. “I can’t. I can’t tell her she’s going to lose her grandson. The way he talks about her . . . I can’t meet her this way.”
“Are you okay?”
Barnaby shook his head. No. “I didn’t think I would react this way. It’s Jones.”
“You keep yourself at a distance,” said Sarah, cupping the side of his face in the palm of her right hand. “You tell yourself you don’t care so when something like this happens you don’t have to care. But you do care. You care too much. And yes, it’s Jones. You can’t help but like him no matter how hard you try not to.”
Guilt stopping him from smiling, Barnaby nodded in agreement. He had tried hard not to like Jones, especially during those first few weeks, but Jones, like a stray dog not ready to give up, persistent, likeable. Barnaby hadn’t even realised how close Jones had gotten, friendship hidden by a working relationship.
“DCI Barnaby?”
Without thinking, Barnaby stood up, weak limbs unable to support him, falling back down onto the plastic chair. His hands shook, his heart rate increased, the anxiety biting at his insides. He was expecting the worst. Sarah, the love of his life, understood, taking control of the situation so he didn’t have to.
“Doctor,” said Sarah, pausing, hesitating.
“Doctor Henry, I’m the admitting Doctor.” Young, short, chubby, but with a confidence that reassured Barnaby.
“How is he?”
“In ICU in a critical but stable condition. Barring any complications, he should be fine.”
Barnaby felt his entire body sag with relief.
Doctor Henry stepped closer. “I understand you didn’t call an ambulance. You drove the patient here?”
Waiting for the judgement, for this man to question his decision, Barnaby stood up, his emotions once again unbalanced. “It would have taken too long for an ambulance to arrive.”
“You did the right thing,” said Henry. “You saved his life.”
“He’s going to be fine?”
“As you know, he went into hypovolemic shock. We had to give him two blood transfusions and plenty of fluids. His blood pressure and blood count have already improved but we’ll continue to monitor him closely over the next twenty-four hours. A continuity of tests. Blood count. His urine output so we can keep an eye on his kidney function. And when he wakes up we’ll be able to determine if there’s any brain damage, but, as I said, as long as there aren’t any complications, he’ll be fine.”
“Brain damage?”
“With such a severe loss of blood . . . well, there’s a lot less oxygen in the body,” said Henry, his gaze shifting between John and Sarah Barnaby. “But he’s still young, fit and healthy and we got to him in time. He should be fine.”
“You keep saying ‘should’,” said Barnaby.
“He’ll be fine.”
Barnaby nodded his gratitude, his heart heavy with relief. “Thank you.”
“You can go see him if you like. And, as long as you don’t impede his medical care, you can stay as long as you want or need to.”
“I have to contact his grandmother,” said Barnaby, thinking it would be better to visit her in person, not the sort of thing you could talk about over the phone; reassure her with a physical presence. If need be, allow her to cry on his shoulder, allow her to slap him across the face for not taking better care of her grandson. Bring her to the hospital; sit with her, support her. Barnaby fell back into his seat, fingers gripping his wife’s hand, his emotions now under control. “I’ll go and see her, bring her back.”
Sense of humour similar to Jones, Henry said, “Take your time, he’s not going anywhere.”
Barnaby smiled, his relief evident. If the doctor could make a joke at a time like this, even a bad one . . . Jones was going to be fine.
Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four | Chapter Five | Chapter Six
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 and Kate Wilding.
Disclaimer: Created and based on the characters and books by Caroline Graham. A Bentley production for ITV.
Spoilers: Set during season 15.
Word Count: 3,980
Status: Each chapter can be read as a stand-alone story.
5. The Required Shooting
Summary: It's a long drive to the hospital when your detective sergeant has been shot by an aggressive pig farmer who had been intent on making a killing.
Breath caught in his throat, his lungs hungry for oxygen, John Barnaby struggled to breathe. Death had never felt so close, its touch caressing his flesh, chilling his bones, squeezing his heart. His chest, so tight with fear and worry, ached with a passion, his heart pounding painfully against his ribs not helping. He was unable to move, fight-or-flight response seemingly broken; one for the psychologists as Jones would say. He quickly glanced toward Jones. His sergeant, sent to the floor by a blast from a single-trigger over-under shotgun was slumped against the wall, face hidden, limbs in a tangle, blood pooling beneath him; unconscious or dead, Barnaby didn't know, wasn’t sure he wanted to know. He had never lost a colleague before, not this way, not in such a physical and violent manner, the thought of the loss tearing at his insides.
Barnaby knew it was all part of the job, confrontation between a murderer and a copper always a volatile situation but to actually witness this kind of violence against one of his own, against Ben Jones, a man well liked by everyone, including criminals . . . the nightmares would last a life time, Barnaby was sure of that. If he lived a lifetime. The situation he was in dictating that living another thirty years was very unlikely, the probability impossible.
But fate could be a fickle thing at the best of times . . .
Body frozen, his muscles twitching with adrenaline and fear, Barnaby closed his eyes and waited for the inevitable, for this man to take his life. His last words to his wife, a declaration of love, gave him some comfort at least. Death expected, a slow time coming, Barnaby, to his surprise, began to grow impatient, wishing it were over, the present taking too long to become the past.
The shotgun blast was deafening, the sound causing his body to flinch, to hunch over toward the right, an attempt to get out of the way. He could smell the cordite, feel the blood splatter across his clothing, his face, bits of bone scraping against his skin. His body in shock, Barnaby waited for the pain, for the chill to fill his bones, his innards. He waited for death.
When it didn’t come for him, Barnaby opened his eyes and gazed downward, searching his own body for the gunshot wound that should have killed him instantly. Not usually so thick, it took Barnaby longer than it should have to realise he hadn’t suffered a fatal gunshot wound. He wasn’t dead or injured. Far from it in fact. Glancing toward his sergeant, Barnaby prayed Jones hadn’t been shot a second time. Dead or not, the pool of blood beneath Jones had stopped spreading. Barnaby’s heart sank, his gut feeling heavy with the weight of grief.
Blinking his eyes against the sting of tears, Barnaby turned back to the gunman. Joseph Hanson lay dead on the floor, face gone, the back of his skull spread across the floor behind him. The sight left Barnaby dazed and confused. If the man’s intention had been to take his own life, why had he taken Jones with him? Why couldn’t he have left Jones out of it? Questions he would never be able to answer.
Body filled with dread, Barnaby moved toward Jones, kneeling in front him. He reached for his sergeant, trembling fingers pressing against the carotid pulse point. Shoulders slumping with relief, a smile spreading across his pale features, Barnaby could feel a soft heartbeat beneath skin clammy with shock. Placing his hand against the back of Jones’s head, Barnaby gently lowered him to the floor, straightening tangled limbs. There was no resistance, Jones unconscious, his body refusing to return to a world filled with nothing but fear and pain.
Pulling Jones’s jacket to the side, Barnaby’s relief was short-lived, his smile quickly crumbling, his heart clenching with fear at the sight of so much blood. Time had barely existed since the first shot and for such a short amount of time, Jones had already lost too much. Fingers, still trembling with fear and shock, lifted the blood sodden shirt away from the wound an inch above Jones’s right hip, tugging it from trousers almost soaked to the knee with blood. So much blood.
The wound, not as large as Barnaby had expected, looked ugly, flesh torn, purple bruising already forming. The buckshot, spreading out as soon as it had exited the barrel, left an entry wound the size of a small child’s fist, a spattering of buckshot wounds surrounding the main injury. Blood continued to flow, a steady rivulet that needed stopping.
Think, Barnaby. Think.
Standing up onto unsteady legs, his entire body shaking with anxiety, Barnaby began to search for something he could use to stop the bleeding. He considered calling an ambulance but felt it a waste of time. They were on the other side of Newton Magna, at least twenty minutes away from the nearest ambulance station. Taking in consideration the return journey, Barnaby didn’t think Jones would last that long. Not only would it be quicker if he drove his sergeant to the hospital, it would also give Jones a better chance of survival.
Barnaby hesitated, a feeling of doubt overwhelming him. He looked back over his shoulder, gaze finding Jones’s still form. Stomach bared, the gunshot wound intimidating, the blood still flowing. No, it was the right thing to do. First, he had to find something to stop the blood flow or at least kept it at a bare minimum.
Quickly finding a small bathroom, Barnaby snatched a white towel from the railing on the wall, not caring if it was dirty or clean. It would do. Anything would do. He returned to Jones, dropping to his knees beside his sergeant, pressing the towel against Jones’s side. A soft grunt of surprise escaped Jones, his eyes snapping open.
Barnaby decided it was time to move because a conscious Jones would be easier to get into the car than an unconscious Jones. Placing his right arm under Jones’s shoulders, Barnaby lifted his sergeant up into a sitting position. The result was unexpected, Jones’s response lethargic, barely there. Jones wasn’t feeling a lot of pain and that was not a good sign. When Jones’s head fell back against Barnaby’s shoulder, he took a moment to re-check his pulse, rapid but weak. So close, he could feel his sergeant’s shallow breath against his face, could notice the sweat forming on cool, pale, clammy skin. Things had just become serious, the symptoms of shock worsening, becoming life threatening.
They had to move.
Now.
“Ben,” said Barnaby, gently slapping the side of Jones’s face in an attempt to get him focused. “You have to stand up. We have to go. Now.”
Jones let out a deep sigh, a grimace of pain crossing his features, and closed his eyes.
Without hesitation, Barnaby applied more pressure to the wound, his sergeant’s eyes once again snapping open. A whisper of profanity from Jones before he turned his gaze toward Barnaby.
“You have to stand up, Ben. No arguments. No excuses. Just do it. Get up!”
Barnaby knew his words hadn’t been convincing. It was the fear in his voice that had gotten Jones moving, his sergeant quickly understanding that something was seriously wrong. Jones didn’t ask any questions. He didn’t offer any excuses. He simply did as Barnaby told him. But as much as Jones tried – and he tried – he didn’t have the strength, knees buckling beneath him with every attempt to stand up.
Knowing he was going to need both hands, Barnaby pushed the towel under the band of Jones’s trousers and taking an assertive hold he pushed upward with his knees, bringing his sergeant with him. Barnaby felt the pain pulling at his back, the muscles beginning to spasm. Jones was heavier than he looked, almost a dead weight.
They began to move through the cottage, the long hallway toward the front door, Jones stumbling all the way, Barnaby straining his back to keep his sergeant from falling. Progress was slow but they eventually made it to the car, Jones becoming weaker with every step. Barnaby leant Jones against the car, using the solid object as a crutch, keeping Jones upright with one hand while using the other to open the car door. Gently lowering Jones into the passenger seat Barnaby realised he was about to lose Jones, his sergeant’s consciousness fading. In an attempt to put Jones into the shock position, Barnaby lowered the seat back, placing Jones in a horizontal position, lifting his knees, elevating his legs. Could be better but it would have to do.
Again, Barnaby hesitated, still unsure if he was doing the right thing. His worried gaze travelled over Jones’s body, finally coming to a rest on his sergeant’s face, the skin so pale. The sight of bluish lips almost stopped Barnaby’s heart, the fear biting into his chest. Shock. Plain, simple and it could be a killer. If Jones went into hypovolemic shock, he wouldn’t make it to the hospital. In a panic, Barnaby slammed the door shut, Jones’s body flinching away in surprise; not yet unconscious.
Rushing to the other side of the car, Barnaby opened the door and practically threw himself into the driver’s seat. Lacking a blanket to keep Jones warm, Barnaby started the car and turned on the heater. After one more glance at Jones, he released the hand break and slammed his foot down on the accelerator.
Leaving Joseph Hanson to wallow in death and self-pity, Barnaby sped away from the cottage, his sergeant at death’s door in the passenger seat.
.
.
.
Nerves shredded by fear and frustration, Barnaby drove like a madman; car engine roaring, siren blaring, the speed limit broken many times over. Beside him, Jones laid unconscious, breath so shallow Barnaby was unsure if his sergeant was still breathing. Barnaby was losing hope, his grief strangling him, his own breath harsh. If they didn’t make it, if Jones . . . Taking a deep breath, he glanced toward his sergeant before returning his gaze back to the long stretch of road that would take them straight into Causton.
Jones had surprised him, not exactly what he had expected when Tom Barnaby had informed him that Ben Jones had the right stuff. Smart, loyal, very trusting and with a sense of humour that left John Barnaby shaking his head in confusion on the best of days. This man who enjoyed the simple things in life – never before had Barnaby seen anyone take such joy in forcing open a door - was going to die and Barnaby could do nothing about it.
He felt so helpless, so afraid.
Barnaby leant to the left and raised a hand sticky with congealing blood, his emotions building, breaking, the fear tearing through him. He placed the back of his hand in front of Jones’s mouth and waited for what felt like an eternity.
A small, ragged puff of breath.
Overwhelmed with relief, Barnaby choked on the emotion rising into his throat. Jones was still alive, but for how long, Barnaby didn’t know.
Eyes on the road, Barnaby moved his hand upward, his own heated flesh against Jones’s forehead; skin cold, sweaty, clammy with shock, even in the suffocating heat the car heater had created. He returned his hand to Jones’s side, once again applying pressure to the wound. Jones moved beneath him; the weak attempt to move away from the source of pain a failure. Becoming restless, Jones lifted his head, his legs shifting, knees hitting the dashboard. In his weakened state, he didn’t get very far, body quickly becoming still.
Barnaby, heart in his stomach, feared the worse.
Up ahead, congesting traffic, all but one vehicle scattering out of his way. Coming up behind the car in front, Barnaby realised the driver was refraining from obeying the road rules, plodding along at a sedate pace. Fearing that Jones was no longer with him, Barnaby – with no intention of slowing down – pressed the heel of his right hand against the horn in the steering wheel; he wasn’t going to lose this game of reversed chicken.
Left hand now gripping Jones’s belt, keeping his sergeant in place, Barnaby expertly manouvered his car around the vehicle, back wheels screaming along the edge of the road. Jones began to slip away from him, body moving with the momentum of the car. Barnaby heard a soft, painful grunt as Jones hit the passenger door. Still alive. Barnaby struggled to pull Jones back into a horizontal position, losing his grip on the blood soaked clothing.
Minutes away from Causton General Hospital, Barnaby had to slow down, the traffic stubborn, almost coming to a stop as they tried to move out of his way. He could feel his heart breaking. He wasn’t going to give up now. Not now. They were so close. Barnaby snapped the steering wheel to the right, driving the car into the oncoming traffic.
Drivers panicked, horns sounded and cars moved out of his way.
Pulling up outside the Emergency Department, Barnaby slammed his foot on the brake, Jones almost sliding off the seat as a result. A funny sight if things weren’t so serious. Pressing down on the horn, Barnaby, wincing at the sound, refused to let up until someone with medical training came to his aid. He didn’t have to wait long. Seconds had barely passed before a female nurse was opening the passenger door, reaching in toward his sergeant, fingers pressing against the pulse point in Jones’s neck.
Expecting the worse, Barnaby held his breath, releasing it when the nurse called out over her shoulder. Blood pounding through his ears, Barnaby couldn’t hear what she was saying. She turned back to him, her mouth moving, her voice muffled.
“What happened?”
“He was shot,” said Barnaby, his voice shaking, cracking.
Everything seemed to happen at once. A small crowd of medical personnel removed Jones from the car, his body limp as they placed him onto a gurney, blood persistently dripping from his side. Barnaby, not wanting to be left behind, followed as they disappeared through a set of sliding doors, running to keep up. Keys left in the ignition, engine still running; someone else would move his car.
Calmer than Barnaby felt they should be, their emotions controlled, the medical staff rushed Jones through the waiting room, through the security doors and into one of the main trauma rooms. Barnaby, his adrenaline diminishing, his fear growing and unwilling to lose sight of his sergeant, kept pace with the gurney.
They were quick; stripping Jones of his clothing, inserting IV’s into both arms, placing a pulse monitor on his right forefinger, a blood pressure cuff around his left arm. One nurse came toward Barnaby, asking the victim’s name.
Barnaby could only whisper, his voice choked with emotion, “Ben Jones. Detective Sergeant Ben Jones.”
“Has he been admitted to this hospital before?”
“What?”
“If he’s been admitted on another occasion we’ll have his medical history on record,” said the nurse. “Blood type for example.”
“A Positive,” said Barnaby, thankful for the distraction, even if it was only momentary. “And yes, almost two years ago, concussion. He had to get at least eight stitches. Stayed overnight. He didn’t--”
With a thank you and a smile of understanding on her face, the nurse walked away, speaking to the doctor before finding the closest computer terminal, fingers dancing across the keyboard.
Distraction gone, Barnaby listened to the conversation between nurses and doctors, their words blunt and honest, one particular phrase loud and clear to Barnaby; hypovolemic shock. They were losing him. Barnaby felt his legs weaken. Collapsing into the nearest chair, he removed his phone, finding a name in the contact list, fingers vibrating with anxiety making it difficult. He couldn’t do this alone. He needed his own support. When the call went through, he struggled to speak, “Sarah . . .”
.
.
.
Scared and confused, Barnaby had lost control of the situation, his sergeant’s life in someone else’s hands. He had no knowledge of what was happening; only that Jones was now in surgery, death still knocking on his front door. It left him feeling helpless, unable to do anything but wait. With a deep breath of impending grief, Barnaby lowered his head, blood stained fingers wiping the moisture from his eyes.
Analysing his emotions, Barnaby couldn’t understand his reaction, Jones more of a colleague than a friend. He put it all down to adrenaline, fear and shock, almost losing his own life. If Hanson hadn’t turned the shotgun on himself. A tremor of fear ran along Barnaby’s spine, the emotion expected.
Brain scrambled, emotional one moment, confused and detached the next, Barnaby realised he was trying to distance himself, unwilling to admit, even to himself that he had grown attached to his sergeant and wasn’t prepared to treat Jones’s forthcoming death as part of the job. Jones deserved better.
Obvious denial. The first stage of grief. He didn’t want to grieve, easier to pretend he didn’t care, harder to break down. Emotions running unchecked, Barnaby rested his head in the palms of his hands, choking on the sob rising in his throat, chest tight with grief.
“John.”
This is what he had wanted, his wife, her support, but he couldn’t stand up, muscles weak, trembling with emotion. He lowered his hands, eyes red, face pale, unable to voice what he wanted to say, his emotions speaking for him. Barnaby watched through blurred vision as she rushed toward him, her own features reflecting what he was feeling. He’d given her the wrong impression.
He could feel her hands on him, her warm flesh against his face, ignoring the blood on his skin, “Oh, John. I’m so sorry.”
Barnaby felt terrible, emotions keeping him from correcting his mistake. He needed to calm down. He had to distract himself, stop thinking the worse. Think of something else. Anything else. Denial, that’s the key. Deny. Distract. Taking a deep breath, swallowing the grief that refused to back down, Barnaby began to talk.
“No. I’m sorry, no. I didn’t mean,” said Barnaby. “He’s in surgery.”
Sarah sat down in the chair next to her husband, her hands gripping his, not wanting to let go. “Have they told you anything? Is he going to be all right?”
Barnaby shook his head. “I don’t know. He lost so much blood. Hypovolemic shock.”
A distraction, his wife forcing him to focus on something else, “John. What happened?”
“It was routine. Talk to the family, the friends of the victim. Joseph Hanson, friend of the deceased. His front door was open. Jones went in first . . .” Barnaby shook his head, closing his eyes, gathering his thoughts, his emotions, the shotgun blast now on repeat somewhere in the back of his mind. “First sign of trouble, Jones always goes first. I don’t ask and he doesn’t stop to think about it, he just does it. We went into the living room. Hanson shot him. No provocation. He just shot him. I thought he was dead. Hanson turned the gun on me. I don’t know why. Don’t think I’ll ever know why. Not unless he was the murderer. Hanson shot himself instead of me.”
When Sarah wrapped her arms around him, Barnaby responded, holding her tight. He could feel the emotions trembling through her limbs. She was only just keeping it together, fond of Jones, his company enjoyed. His sergeant had brought her flowers when she’d arrived in Midsomer, a friendship assured. She spoke, her breath warm against the side of his face, “Have you called Ben’s grandmother?”
Pulling away from his wife, his eyes wide with shock, Barnaby shook his head. “I can’t, not until I know. Good news or bad.”
“John, she needs to know.”
“I know,” said Barnaby. “I can’t. I can’t tell her she’s going to lose her grandson. The way he talks about her . . . I can’t meet her this way.”
“Are you okay?”
Barnaby shook his head. No. “I didn’t think I would react this way. It’s Jones.”
“You keep yourself at a distance,” said Sarah, cupping the side of his face in the palm of her right hand. “You tell yourself you don’t care so when something like this happens you don’t have to care. But you do care. You care too much. And yes, it’s Jones. You can’t help but like him no matter how hard you try not to.”
Guilt stopping him from smiling, Barnaby nodded in agreement. He had tried hard not to like Jones, especially during those first few weeks, but Jones, like a stray dog not ready to give up, persistent, likeable. Barnaby hadn’t even realised how close Jones had gotten, friendship hidden by a working relationship.
“DCI Barnaby?”
Without thinking, Barnaby stood up, weak limbs unable to support him, falling back down onto the plastic chair. His hands shook, his heart rate increased, the anxiety biting at his insides. He was expecting the worst. Sarah, the love of his life, understood, taking control of the situation so he didn’t have to.
“Doctor,” said Sarah, pausing, hesitating.
“Doctor Henry, I’m the admitting Doctor.” Young, short, chubby, but with a confidence that reassured Barnaby.
“How is he?”
“In ICU in a critical but stable condition. Barring any complications, he should be fine.”
Barnaby felt his entire body sag with relief.
Doctor Henry stepped closer. “I understand you didn’t call an ambulance. You drove the patient here?”
Waiting for the judgement, for this man to question his decision, Barnaby stood up, his emotions once again unbalanced. “It would have taken too long for an ambulance to arrive.”
“You did the right thing,” said Henry. “You saved his life.”
“He’s going to be fine?”
“As you know, he went into hypovolemic shock. We had to give him two blood transfusions and plenty of fluids. His blood pressure and blood count have already improved but we’ll continue to monitor him closely over the next twenty-four hours. A continuity of tests. Blood count. His urine output so we can keep an eye on his kidney function. And when he wakes up we’ll be able to determine if there’s any brain damage, but, as I said, as long as there aren’t any complications, he’ll be fine.”
“Brain damage?”
“With such a severe loss of blood . . . well, there’s a lot less oxygen in the body,” said Henry, his gaze shifting between John and Sarah Barnaby. “But he’s still young, fit and healthy and we got to him in time. He should be fine.”
“You keep saying ‘should’,” said Barnaby.
“He’ll be fine.”
Barnaby nodded his gratitude, his heart heavy with relief. “Thank you.”
“You can go see him if you like. And, as long as you don’t impede his medical care, you can stay as long as you want or need to.”
“I have to contact his grandmother,” said Barnaby, thinking it would be better to visit her in person, not the sort of thing you could talk about over the phone; reassure her with a physical presence. If need be, allow her to cry on his shoulder, allow her to slap him across the face for not taking better care of her grandson. Bring her to the hospital; sit with her, support her. Barnaby fell back into his seat, fingers gripping his wife’s hand, his emotions now under control. “I’ll go and see her, bring her back.”
Sense of humour similar to Jones, Henry said, “Take your time, he’s not going anywhere.”
Barnaby smiled, his relief evident. If the doctor could make a joke at a time like this, even a bad one . . . Jones was going to be fine.
Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four | Chapter Five | Chapter Six
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