But an unexpected visit from his beloved older brother will set in motion a chain of events that plunge Babe into a vortex of terror, treachery, and murder--and force him into a race for his life . . . and for the answer to the fateful question, "Is it safe?"

    He contacts CIA headquarters for help but when an attempted rendezvous goes wrong, it quickly becomes clear that no one can be trusted. Malcolm disappears into the streets of Washington, hoping to evade the killers long enough to unravel the conspiracy—but will that be enough to save his life?

    Meeting Debra, an Israeli writer, he follows her to her homeland and becomes involved in her country's war for national survival, at a terrible cost to both Debra and himself.

    Until a knock at the door shattered sanctuary.Rynn is the little girl who lives in the house at the end of the lane with her father-or so she says. No one had seen the poet, Leslie Jacobs, for a long time, and though the pungent aroma of Gauloise filled the parlor with intimations of his presence, no one was certain he was there:Not Mrs. Hallet, the real estate agent who'd rented the old house to the eminent English poet and his daughter and whose formidable manner, product of her impeccable Long Island lineage, brooked no betrayals, especially not from a thirteen-year-old...Not her son Frank, whose Halloween visit, intruding on Rynn's birthday rituals, had been more trick than treat and whose own insidious motives would soon lock them both in a perilous contest of will...Not the local policeman who came to call and, lured by what he had seen, returned...Not the shy young amateur magician who arrived on an errand-and stayed to become confidant and co-conspirator...Who was the little girl who lived in such strange seclusion at the end of the leaf-swept land? Lonely and innocent seeking shelter from a hostile world? Or consummate liar? Each for his own reason, the Hallets were determined to find out. And it was then that the terrible secrets of the house at the end of the lane emerged. Moving with swift and shocking turnabout to a profoundly disturbing denouement, here is a fine and freezing novel of suspense that probes the subtle bonds of innocence to evil.

    At certain times of the day the mountain emits a strange glow. Only Sir James Manson knows why. The mountain contains ten billion dollars worth of the world's most valuable mineral, platinum. Now the only question is, how to get hold of it. Sir James knows how. Invade the country with a band of savage, cold-blooded mercenaries. Topple the government and set up a puppet dictatorship. Unleash the dogs of war.

    Experience the thrill of helpless horror again—or for the first time!

    Then, slowly, it began to turn skywards. Och, no, he thought before the end, not ma brain... not ma brain... anything but ma brain...please don't slice ma brain... no, no... not the brain...och, no...'Never before had there been a book about a flying knife, and, although Marenghi would ink three sequels*, Slasher, R.I.P.P.E.R., and Slicer IV: The Blade is Back, Slicer is our first novel-length taste of the Marenghian terrors to come. The themes are all here: blood, redemption, fear of cutlery, distaste for body hair, and the question of Man's place (mis-place?) in Romford. Its influence can be seen in a host of imitators, notably Fork! by Herbert G. Samson.Much has been written about Slicer's psychological implications (try either Dan Britten's essay in 'Bending Spoons and Stabbing Knives: the Psychic Phenomena of Spiritual Cutlery' (New York, 1985) or Muriel Carter's Slash Me, Slay Me - Post-Modern Carve-ups in 20th Century Horror Fiction (New York, 1988) ), but most significantly it gave a much needed kick in the arm of an elitist publishing industry obsessed by literary 'classics'. And, as Hard Gore's Neil Nichols has opined: 'One can only be thankful that our bi-annual Marenghi shock treatments continue to prevent the genre slipping into postmodern somnambulism.' Marenghi evidently concurs with the renowned splatter fiction aficionado : 'I see my life as being a single-handed pump. And that can get lonely.'*Marenghi prefers to think of them as a 'self-integral cycle''It really doesn't get any better' The Observer'A cut above the rest of the so-called "dangerous implement horror" sub-genre' The Sunday Times