'The Master Chronicles - Book One.
Chapter One - Betrayal'
Private Apartments, 10 Downing Street, London.
Lucy wakes with a start, heart pounding and skin slick with the sweat of fear. She's not sure at first what awoke her or even if perhaps she's still dreaming. The room is in complete darkness but she can feel the presence of someone else nearby and fear twists her stomach. She closes her eyes, willing her breathing back to a more sleep-like rhythm and moving restlessly, murmuring as if still in the grip of her dream. Then she forces her muscles to relax, to appear as if she is still sleeping; but even as she does this, she knows that it will probably make little difference – asleep or awake, he will get what he wants from her. She's learned that resistance is pointless; even to acquiesce can sometimes be dangerous, depending on his mood; and either response will lead to taunts and beatings designed to provoke the reaction he desires at that particular moment. He's impossible to predict and she has long since stopped trying. Please, let this be a dream, don't let him be here...
As the silence deepens, Lucy fights against the overwhelming urge to open her eyes, to run, to hide... even though she knows that there's nowhere she can possibly go to escape him. Her skin prickles with the knowledge that his eyes are surely on her, watching her breathing and waiting, just waiting... Then she feels it, the merest whisper of breath across her skin, the sensation of someone standing close, so close, near enough to touch...
'No!' even as she draws breath, gasping out the word, strong hands grip her wrists and hold her down. Her eyes, against her will, fly open - in the dark she can't see him but his breath is on her face; he's panting now, the laughter silent but deafening in her mind as she feels his eyes bore into hers.
'Lucy, my love...' his voice betrays the grin that she knows will be ear-to-ear across his boyish features; the face that once made her heart beat faster in quite a different way, completely unlike the terror fuelling her galloping pulse now.
'Harry, no, please, I' – the slap stings her cheek and her head snaps back against the pillow, eyes smarting. Her vision swims and for a moment nausea overwhelms her so that she gulps loudly.
'Call me Master!' he hisses, his body pressing against hers, his mouth covering hers until she thinks she must suffocate. She bucks beneath him, frantically trying to throw him off, feeling his arousal against her thigh. Please... I need air... her vision blurs and her ears begin to ring. Please, don't let it end like this...
Lucy Cole is totally unprepared for her first meeting with the Minister for Defence, Harold Saxon. Oh, she has researched him, certainly; she knows the public face of the man striding across the lobby to meet her, his hand outstretched and with what she would call the 'politician's smile' on his face; the insincere 'I really don't have time for this but I suppose I've no choice' kind of smile that Ministers employ so often.
What she has notbeen prepared for is the sudden tension she feels as his eyes look her up and down in a considering way, almost as if he's trying to decide whether she merits attention. Initial indignation at his manner is suddenly replaced by an overwhelming and inexplicable fear and for a moment Lucy feels as if the air has been sucked from her lungs. She gasps wordlessly before managing to recover her composure and takes a deep breath. In those few moments as he gives her his full and absolute attention, Lucy has the feeling that Harold Saxon is an extremely dangerous man and that the most sensible thing she could do would be to turn and run as far away from him as possible. But before she can turn thought into action he's standing right in front of her, regarding her with eyes the colour of warm whisky and the fear dissipates as quickly as it came. Somehow she finds her voice.
'I'm Lucy Cole, Mr Saxon, Turner and Broughton Publishing.' Get a grip, Lucy Cole! The hand that grips hers and shakes it firmly is warm and dry – thank God, not a wet, limp handshake – and as those eyes continue to probe hers Lucy feels a wave of something very like lust explode within her. She gulps again as heat flushes her body; it must surely be written all over her face.
'Oh, I know who you are, Lucy – may I call you Lucy? Please, call me Harry. I'm delightedto meet you. Come this way...' and placing his hand on the small of her back, Harry Saxon steers her into his office. The door shuts behind her with a luxurious clunk, and for Lucy Cole nothing is ever the same again.
She comes to, head ringing and gasping for air, and fumbles for the light. Relief that she seems to be alone again turns to horror as she realises her mistake – he's lying beside her, propped up on one elbow, consternation creasing his brow.
'Har – Master, what...' his hand shoots out, gripping her jaw and forcing her chin up.
'I thought I told you not to do that.' The tone is calm, reasonable even, but the glitter in his eyes gives the lie.
'What? I don't know -' she manages before his grip tightens and speech becomes impossible.
'To absent yourself...without my permission.' His face is against hers, skin to skin. She can't focus and screws her eyes tightly shut.
Oh God, no... Self-preservation kicks in.'I'm s-sorry, M-Master!' She forces a smile, reaching up and tentatively stroking his hair, just the way he likes it. Come on Lucy, you can do this. You have to. 'It won't happen again, I promise.'
His eyes search hers, looking for the truth behind her words. 'I hope not. Otherwise...' His grip tightens around her jaw and she gasps. 'Well, I can arrange alternative entertainment, if it will make it easier for you?'
Her stomach churns. Is there no end to it?
'Master, you know that won't be necessary...' so saying, she runs her hand through his hair and, willing the smile of the seductress to her facial muscles, she traces a hand down his face, around his mouth – so charming one moment, so cruel the next - and down his throat.
No! Don't think it! He'll know! The sudden urge to grip that throat with both hands and squeeze as hard as she can is replaced a split second later with the knowledge that she's not strong enough to carry it out.
She fumbles with his tie, releasing it awkwardly and undoes the buttons on his shirt one by one, trying to still the trembling of her fingers whilst keeping eye contact all the while. Her face aches with the effort of maintaining the smile but she daren't falter. She presses the flat of her hand against his chest, feeling the two hearts quicken as she strokes downwards toward his belly. Those hypnotic eyes are boring into her mind; suddenly and shockingly she's wet with desire and moans despite herself. With a grunt, he's on top of her, his arousal hard between her legs and his mouth on hers, until she cries out with the joy and the terror of it.
In the beginning it had been so different. Lucy had never quite worked out where her first reaction had come from; or, if she was honest with herself, the second. Both were entirely unexpected and as he'd ushered her into his office her head had been spinning with confusion. During that first meeting to discuss the writing and marketing of his autobiography, they had talked of many things besides the work he wanted her to do. Exactly what they'd discussed Lucy could not afterwards have said; but she remembers that when she'd left the meeting an hour later, she'd felt as if she'd been in an all-day meeting rather than the hour her watch told her had actually passed; drained but strangely sated, and with the feeling that she had known Harry Saxon all her life. After that, she seemed to spend more time in his office than her own. He appeared to relish her company and she began to look forward to seeing him.
Lucy remembers one particular evening - they had been working late, putting finishing touches to the final chapter. Harry Saxon worked impossible hours, and seemingly without being asked to his staff did the same. Although everyone else seemed to flag as the hours wore on and the office slowly emptied, Saxon seemed to have limitless energy...
His stamina is incredible... Lucy thinks, stifling a yawn and longing for her bed.
'Yes, it is, isn't it...allow me to demonstrate?' Harry's voice whispers in her ear. She yelps with surprise and leaps from the chair in consternation.
'What?'
Harry chuckles; it's a low throaty sound that causes her heart to race. Oh my God, tell me I didn't say that out loud?
'No, little Lucy, you are just so verytransparent.' Saxon smiles winningly. He seems to find her embarrassment amusing.
'I am?' Her cheeks feel as though they're on fire.
'Oh yes. In fact ... I happen to know exactly how you felt about me the very first time we met.' He cocks his head to one side and smiles into her eyes. Something that might be called lust throbs through her belly. She gulps.
'Y- You did?' Her heart is thudding so loud she's sure he must be able to hear it.
'Of course - because I felt the very same way about you...' and suddenly his mouth is on hers, his hands cupping her face gently. His body presses against hers and Lucy is left with no doubt about his feelings.
So it comes as no surprise to anyone that only four months after they first met and even before the autobiography has hit the shelves, Lucy Cole becomes Mrs Saxon. In quiet moments, Lucy can hardly believe it herself. Any lingering doubts she might have about the suddenness of it all are dispelled whenever Harry looks into her eyes and tells her what a darling she is, which he does often.
Things are fine until the election campaign begins to take more and more of Harry's time, so that sometimes Lucy doesn't see him for days on end and has no idea of his whereabouts. There are times, it seems, when neither do his campaign staff. Her phone calls go unanswered, or if he does pick up he's terse, distracted and very off-hand with her so that eventually she doesn't bother to call anymore. She becomes accustomed to wending her lonely way up the stairs to their silent apartment above the Saxon Campaign Office night after night. Harry often returns late, still brimming with energy, and exercises his conjugal rights even if he has to wake her to do so – which is more often than not. Mostly, Lucy feels that she can't complain about this because whatever else he is, he is an amazing lover - but there are times when he seems cold and distant, snapping at her if she's slow to wake or to give the correct response. She puts that down to the stress of the election campaign and puts up with it.
The only clouds on the horizon are the strange headaches Harry seems to suffer from time to time. They reveal a distress that is agonising for Lucy to witness. Time and again she begs him to see a Doctor, which only ever gets one response; a testy 'there's only one Doctor who can help me, and he'snot available!' No matter how Lucy cajoles and begs, he won't be drawn on the matter and resolutely refuses outright to seek medical help. In fact, come to think of it, apart from the headaches he has never once been ill since Lucy has met him. While others, Lucy included, fall prey to seasonal coughs and colds and the like, Harry remains cheerfully hale and hearty. This makes the mysterious headaches all the more worrying.
The first time it had happened, Lucy had found him in his office. He'd been slumped over his desk with his hands pressed to his temples, muttering frenziedly under his breath.
She'd rushed to his side and had been dismayed by his expression - his eyes were fearful and dark with pain, sweat beading his brow. He'd shuddered and moaned as she'd exclaimed in surprise and Lucy had panicked, grabbing the phone. His reaction to this had been shocking, to say the least. He'd reached out and wrenched it from her grasp, flinging it away as though it were red hot.
'NO!' he'd shouted, only to slump back in his chair, his face grey with pain. Lucy had gaped at him in amazement, before anger born of fright had taken hold.
'Harry, you're being completely unreasonable!' she'd said firmly, grabbing his wrists as he kneaded his temples. 'You need to see a Doctor. This is more than a migraine; it looks serious!' Please, don't let it be a tumour...
Harry flings his arms wide, breaking her grip, and lunges to his feet, his face tight with anger.
'Don't ever' -and to her shock, he slaps her face - 'tell me I'm unreasonable!' And he slaps her again. As she stands speechless, face stinging, he staggers away from her.
Wrenching the door open he lurches out into the corridor and Lucy hears him shout 'Leave me alone!' at an unfortunate secretary as the sound of a shriek and fluttering papers tell the tale of his collision. Lucy races after him, but is too late as the door to the men's room slams in her face. She hears the sound of vomiting and sobs in her shock and misery. She waits by the door for a long time but he doesn't emerge and she's too afraid to follow him in. His only response to her repeated queries is to tell her in strained tones to 'Go away and leave me alone.'
Later that evening, having consumed rather more wine than is sensible, she finally finds the courage to enter their bedroom. Harry is lying comatose on the bed, still fully clothed, his shirt stained and creased. He seems to be asleep and looks peaceful, so different to the frantic man who'd slapped her that for one insane moment Lucy thinks she must surely have dreamed the whole thing. Only the stale stink of vomit and Harry's dishevelled state tells her it had been all too real. Tentatively she sits beside him and takes his hand.
'Oh, Harry...' she murmurs, and carefully unbuttons the soiled shirt, pulling it down his arms and away from him. Harry mutters and stirs fitfully but doesn't wake. She's been worried for quite some that he's doing too much, not sleeping enough, and this would seem to bear out her fears. He's suffering from exhaustion, nothing more, surely? Lucy has often joked with him that she doesn't believe he ever actually sleeps at all – he's always awake before her, and even when she's sated and sleepy after love-making he almost never falls asleep beside her, claming he still has work to do or fancies a bite to eat;' Can I get you something, darling? No? You sleep; I'll be with you soon,' and she never feels him return to their bed. Removing the rest of his clothes, she resolves to tackle him again in the morning about seeing a Doctor, and slips into bed beside him, hand on his chest to reassure herself that he's still breathing.
She sleeps fitfully, possessed by a dread she can't name; yet when she awakes, it's to the usual empty bed. Harry is nowhere to be seen, and enquiries of the staff about his whereabouts are met with a casual 'Oh, he's out on business, Lucy - he said to tell you that he'll catch up with you later.' Somehow, Lucy feels something is going on that she isn't privy to. But the worry of that is as nothing compared to her fears for Harry's health.
When finally he does return late that evening, he seems distant and preoccupied, replying to her 'How are you feeling?' with a frown and a curt 'I'm fine. Why do you ask?' He seems almost not to remember the incident so Lucy lets the matter drop but resolves to keep a careful eye on him, in case it happens again. Next time, she decides, she would call the Doctor out of his earshot; he couldn't argue with a fait accompli, could he?
The next time the headache strikes him they're making love. One moment he's in the throes of passion, his mouth on hers and his hand between her legs when she feels him shudder and stiffen. He moans and falls away from her, cursing and groaning, just as before.
'Uuuhh – fuck – will they everstop!'
Passion forgotten, Lucy throws her arms around him, hugging him tight and rocking with him as he moans and weeps through the pain. He seems delirious this time, hardly seeming to know who she is as she sooths him gently. 'Sshh my love, sshhh...' she lays him back when the worst seems to be over, smoothing his brow.
'Harry, what is it? What's causing this? Pleasetell me...'
He swallows. 'The drums, the drums ... always the bloody drumming ... Why won't they leave me alone?' His eyes shoot open and he gasps, as if expecting to see someone else. 'Lucy...' With a shudder his eyes roll back in his head and he passes out.
'Oh God... Harry! Wake up, pleasewake up!' Lucy sobs, her tears splashing onto his face. He remains comatose and for one panic- stricken moment she fears the worst. She puts her head to his chest; thank god - his heart is still beating. Now she is definitely calling a doctor, since he's not in a position to argue... Wait – what's that? She lowers her head first to one side of his chest, then the other. There it is again. There are two heartbeats. What on earth...?
She's heard of people having extra organs; weren't they remnants of a dead twin, or organs in the wrong place or something? But he has two functional hearts? Had he always had two? She racks her memory, but can't recall having noticed anything untoward before now. Although now she comes to think of it, his pulse had often seemed to race, but she'd put it down to excitement, had never measured it against her own. Perhaps thisis the cause of his headaches? All that blood rushing around his body at twice the pressure...? Trembling, Lucy goes to the phone and keys in a number she has memorised in preparation for this moment.
'You really don'twant to do that.'
She whirls to see Harry groggily pushing himself to a sitting position on the bed. Putting the phone down, Lucy goes to his side.
'Darling, I'm really worried about you – you're not at all well. We mustcall a Doctor-' Harry grabs her wrists and pulls her down beside him.
'And I've told you, Darling, no Doctors.' His tone is strange; a strangely calm and distracted air seems to envelope him. He looks at Lucy as if he'd forgotten she was there, and frowns.
'Well, now that you've discovered my little...secret... I suppose the honeymoon is over.' With that, he lays back, pulling her down with him. Confused, Lucy tries to sit up again but his grip on her hand tightens, preventing her from rising.
'Harry, what are you talking about? Whatsecret? And what do you mean, the honeymoon is over?' Despite her concern for him, Lucy begins to feel angry. He's talking in riddles. The unexpected violence of earlier, now this... could he have a brain tumour? It would certainly explain his odd behaviour.
'Lucy, my dear' - his hand strokes her face softly - 'this will come as a terrible shock to you I'm sure, but I am notHarry Saxon. 'Harry' was a disguise; a tool, nothing more.' He pushes her back against the pillows, and straddles her, his eyes glittering. He looks for all the world like a child about to tell a big secret, but his tone and the firmness of his grip on her wrists are anything but childlike.
Lucy's head is spinning, she doesn't get this. What does he mean by a disguise? Hiding what?
'Harry!' She gasps as his hand flies to her throat and squeezes – tighter and tighter until the blood roars in her ears and stars swim before her eyes. She grabs frantically at his wrists but he's unmoved, his grip on her windpipe relentless.
'No. Not Harry. I'm 'Harry' only in public, for now. In private and from now on you will call me Master.'
Just as Lucy's vision begins to darken, the grip on her windpipe eases and she gasps for air, her hands coming up to try and push him away from her. He's gone mad!'Harry, please don't do this –'
He watches her with a distant, amused expression, his grip tightening again until her head swims.
'Lucy, Lucy, Lucy... you really will have to learn a little faster if we're to remain close. You mustcall me Master.' He shakes her, back and forth and then suddenly releases her, so that she falls back against the pillows. Her distress seems to excite him and suddenly he's all over her; pulling her hair so that the curve of her neck is exposed, he licks and bites and covers her face in hungry kisses. His hands rip her clothes from her until she's naked and trembling, eyes streaming and gasping with shock as her husband, Harold Saxon, The Minister for Defence of England, brutally rapes her.
The following morning Lucy realises with a stab of terror that she's a prisoner in her own home. She's taken a long time to disguise her bruises with make up with the intention of paying a visit to her father, who has many contacts – he will doubtless know of a specialist who can help Harry. She'll help him even though he's unwilling to help himself and even if it means having to section him. It will mean the end of his political career, but Lucy doesn't care if he never makes Prime Minister - all she wants now is to have her Harry, the man she'd fallen in love with, back.
She almost makes it through the front door when an armed guard (how long had they been around? She can't recall) steps in front of her, barring her way. 'I'm sorry, Mrs Saxon. You're to stay indoors today - orders from Mr. Saxon.'
The way the man looks at her makes Lucy's skin crawl with embarrassment. What has Harry told the staff? She dreads to think. It's plain that Harry is not to be outwitted; he must have anticipated that she would seek help. She flees back to the apartment in an agony of fear, embarrassment and loathing at her own weakness.
For goodness' sake, this is the 21st century - Ministers do notbeat, rape and keep their wives prisoners, at least not in the western world. The ever-present eye of the mass media would be quick to spot such a transgression, and Harold Saxon would be drummed out of office, arrested and dealt with.
She goes straight to the telephone, only to find that all outside lines are blocked. With a sinking feeling she tries her mobile and gets the same result. Why is Harry keeping her a prisoner in their own home? Is it to protect her, and if so, from what? Or has he gone insane?
Helping herself to the contents of the drinks cabinet (which is not locked and seems to have been restocked with everything she likes) she drowns her sorrows. Only when she stumbles from the lounge to the bedroom an hour later and sees the expression on the housekeepers' face as she passes the woman in the corridor, does she begin to have an inkling of what Harry must have told the staff. It's all very subtle and she's blindly playing the role he's written for her.
The next few days are a blur; a jumbled haze of fear and beatings and strange conversations in which Harry tells Lucy that he isn't actually Human at all, that in fact he's a 'Timelord' come to take revenge on someone he calls 'the Doctor'. He explains - as if it's the most reasonable thing in the world - that he intends to take over planet Earth and use it to wage war on the whole universe. The first time he tells her this, Lucy knows for certain that he's lost his mind. How can one man, a Politician who thinks he's an alien, take over the universe? The whole idea is ridiculous. She makes the mistake of voicing her opinion and earns a black eye for her trouble. Still she tries, in spite of the beatings, to convince him that she understands; that everything will be alright if only he'll see a Doctor. Each time she does so he becomes enraged to the point where Lucy realises that if she's to survive this, she'll have to find another way to help him.
She feels powerless to break free. Harry seems to anticipate every move and each time she tries the beating is worse than the last. He's very careful now to avoid her face – or anywhere it will show - but there are days when Lucy can barely stand. She learns to be a consummate actress around Harry because any slip will mean punishment later on. After a while, she finds it easier to pretend to herself that all is well – it makes it easier to behave as though it's true. Lucy learns to fool the world that Harry Saxon is the only candidate she will be voting for come Election Day. Only when she's alone does she let her guard down.
When Harry wins the election, it isn't the celebration Lucy had dreamed of all those months ago. She has been ordered to 'make yourself look gorgeous – and don't forget to smile.' Somehow she's managed to do both (or she supposes she had – that evening Harry is tender and considerate when he comes to their bed) and is at his side as the media clamour for sound bites. 'A kiss for the lady wife, Mr Saxon...?'
The turning point had come on the day that Harry won the Election, and the Journalist Vivian Rook came to see Lucy. Up until then, she had had still harboured the hope that her husband had simply gone mad – had either suffered a mental breakdown or had an underlying medical condition that had caused his behaviour to alter so drastically. As Vivian spoke of Harry's non-life prior to eighteen months ago, Lucy felt a shift in her perception of him. If he truly wasn't human (Lucy hadn't forgotten the double heart-beat but simply could not believe that it could be because Harold Saxon was an alien from another planet) then what was she to do?
Come to that, what was the human race to do? Harry – or the alien creature she is forced to admit he indeed appears to be - seemed to have the media of the world in the palm of his hand. All these thoughts race through her mind as the journalist speaks.
Lucy remembers her first reaction to Harry, the inexplicable fear followed by her wanton behaviour – presumably he had somehow hypnotised her as he got closer, and after that she had simply not seen the reality of him.
As Harry's dulcet tones sound from the door, sealing Valerie Rook's fate, Lucy finally accepts that 'her' Harry is really gone; had, in fact, never really existed at all. Lucy makes her decision. She'll have to play along if she is to remain alive; let him think he's bent her to his will. Perhaps then, she might be allowed more freedom and can find a way to stop this tragedy unfolding. As they wait in the corridor while the Toclafane silence the screaming journalist, Lucy remembers what Harry told her about the Archangel Network (it had seemed like insane fantasy at the time and she had tried so hard to put it out of her mind) and plays along with him. She expects her duplicity to be unmasked at any second and tries not to think about what form the punishment might take. But the Master believes her and holds her comfortingly as she manages to behave as if murdering Vivian Rook is an entirely reasonable thing to do. Afterwards, she's violently sick, which seems to amuse Harry no end. For the first time in weeks, he is tender with her that evening.
Then comes the day when he rushes into their apartment, flushed and practically dancing with glee, telling her that he had fired the entire cabinet. 'In fact, Lucy – you'll lovethis!' he claps his hands, grabs her and spins her around in a wild dance- 'I killed them, every last one! No more than they deserved, pompous idiots!'
His lips crush hers and his hands tear at her clothes. Afterwards, as she lays alone in their bedroom and weeps, Lucy begins to seriously consider her options. It will be difficult to get away – every meal is eaten either with Harry, or brought to her by one of the staff, who leave the food and depart without really making eye contact. It's a lonely existence – denied her work or access to her friends and family, and no company save that of her own or an increasingly manic Harry and the silent staff, Lucy mostly seeks oblivion. There seems to be no restriction on the amount of wine or other alcohol she can have – in fact Harry is partial to a drink himself, particularly when his headaches are at their worst. Lucy begins to almost look forward to those times, since it's when Harry (or The Master, as she still finds it hard to call him, a failure which earns her many beatings) is most like the man she married, before the insanity had taken hold of him.
After what seems like an age but is probably only days or perhaps weeks, she begins to realise that there is something else going on besides her husband's apparent breakdown. More armed guards have appeared on the streets, and the media are beginning to report on new laws and regulations which, quite frankly, would have caused uproar and demonstrations if the previous Prime Minister had dared to announce them. Is this the insane 'taking over the Earth' ramblings come to fruition?
She never gives up hope that she might be able to get through to him during one of his headaches, when the pain lays him low and she feels despair at her inability to do anything to help him, save holding him as he shivers and moans and beats his head with his fists. Usually he'll drink copious amounts of scotch before passing out. Sometimes he'll plead with her to help him, and she reassures him that all he has to do is let her call the Doctor. This usually earns her a backhander across the face, or worse. After a while she stops suggesting it. More than once she's contemplated killing him as he lays unconscious, but so far she's been unable to bring herself to do it. Even in her despair, Lucy still harbours the hope that something will happen to end this terrible nightmare.
As the months wear on the pretence begins to take its toll on Lucy. When the Master starts to bring in other women for amusement she drinks until she passes out so that she won't have to endure the sight of them cavorting in their bed or worse, be forced to join them. And its not just the women – at times their bedroom resembles a torture chamber and although she makes sure she's never around, she knows from whispers amongst the staff that he has his prisoners taken there, both male and female. There seems to be no limit to the things he will do and after a time she's grateful that he seems to have lost interest in her.
The hardest part is that in spite of it all and even knowing that the Master is an alien (the word feels strange on her tongue) he still looks sounds and smells like her beloved Harry and her body betrays her on a regular basis. Lucy doesn't know if her family is still alive; to all intents and purposes, Harry - or The Master, whoever or whatever he is - is her family now. She knows that this is wrong but feels powerless to resist. So Lucy carries on fooling herself, until sometimes she doesn't know what is true anymore. She forgets all about trying to find a way to stop the Master.
When the Toclafane pour through the wound in the sky and slaughter her fellow humans, she snuggles up to Harry and smiles. When she finally meets 'the Doctor' of whom Harry had often spoken, and the Master tortures and imprisons his fellow Time Lord and companions, Lucy stays by his side and smiles, even though her heart would break if she allows herself to think about it.
Lucy begins to stay away from the Doctor – he turns his sad eyes on her as if he knows everything she's done, understands her actions and still forgives her for them. Lucy can't look into those eyes and maintain her facade, so she won't look at him at all.
The Master grows more and more erratic, chaining the Doctor's companion Jack to the wall and forcing Lucy - or one of the hapless prisoners his men have captured - to shoot, stab or poison the man in return for their freedom while he, Harry, watches gleefully and then betrays them with a cold wave of his hand as he instructs the guards to kill them anyway. Lucy smiles even as she cries inside, for the poor man is impossible to kill and there can be no end to his suffering. But by now her smile is brittle, her steps faltering, and she's no longer sure where she is. Some days she isn't even sure whoshe is, as she clings to her sanity by a thread.
A year passes, during which time The Master lays waste to her beautiful planet, and murders her people, and still Lucy smiles. She doesn't know anymore, how to do anything else and finds that she craves the smallest crumb of comfort or affection from her Master. There is nothing else left in her world that she feels any attachment to, because to care is to be hurt. She thinks that she would kill anyone who threatens to take him from her; he has become her whole world. Its a sick and twisted world, but its all she has.
But when Martha Jones is finally caught and laughs at the Master even as he prepares to kill her, Lucy suddenly sees that he isn't invincible after all; Martha Jones has tricked him. For the first time since she has known him, Lucy sees her Master's certainty falter. And when the Doctor is restored by the power of human faith, Lucy sees her life as it has become.
This mad creature standing before them, who runs and cries like a child when his plans fall apart, is not her Harry. Her Harry died a year or more ago – in fact, he had died, for Lucy, the first time he raped her, she now sees. So when Francine Jones falters, Lucy sees what she must do. As the bullet tears into the Master, for one moment Lucy sees her Harry again and when the Doctor cries and cradles her Master's body, Lucy weeps with him.
