#Part2 #JT #TakeOver @EllingtonWright #Exclusive #SneakPeak at #Prologue #TheRestlessCoffins

This is an extremely early, sneak peak at the third in the JT Ellington series. Which is scheduled for release in Spring 2018. I have been lucky enough to have a read through and I can promise you it is insanely good! We get to see JT as we have never seen him before. There is booky, globe-trotting across the USA and ultimately Barbados and of course a dark and painful crime that will strike right at the heart of JT.

I was sold halfway through the synopsis! 🙂

RestlessCoffins-A-page-001
The Restless Coffins
Synopsis:

1969, Bristol. Bajan ex- cop and reluctant private detective, Joseph ‘JT’ Tremaine Ellington is still trading in cash and favours, lending a helping hand to those too scared to go to the police or anyone trying to stay one step ahead of them.  

Life is tough for JT, and it’s about to get a lot tougher when he receives a telegram informing him of a tragedy that has unfolded thousands of miles away. Ellington’s sister, Bernice has been murdered.  Ellington wants to make the long journey back to his home on the island of Barbados to pay his final respects and to settle his late sister’s affairs.  To do so, he must accept a ticket from his shady cousin, Vic, on condition he travels to New York first, where Vic is building himself a criminal empire in Harlem.

Vic appoints the beguiling, Evagelina Laveau to mind his cousin, along with his henchmen, Clefus Horton and a hot-headed Bajun, Pigfoot, a man always quick with his knife.  JT soon discovers that Vic is the American end of an operation that stretches back to Barbados, and that Vic’s business partner is Conrad Monroe, the man responsible for the death of JT’s wife and daughter.  JT finds himself embroiled in the world of drugs, bent law, voodoo and the bitter legacy of slavery.  He must return to the island of his birth and face the demons of his past. 

Extract – Prologue:

Ginger Bay, St Philip Parish, Barbados August 9th 1934.

 

The boy and girl walked slowly without speaking to each other, each carrying thin bamboo cane fishing rods across their slender shoulders, languidly kicking at the pale, dusty ground with their toes as they travelled from their chattel home out along the edge of the dirt track road, north towards the sea. The midday sun was hung high in a cloudless, turquoise sky behind them, its heavy rays already stinging the backs of their heads and necks. The sticky humidity clung to the insides of their tee-shirts, the steamy air around their faces, fuggy and still. As they walked they could hear, lost in the thick hedgerows, the hypnotic sound of cicadas chirping. Above their heads, hanging from the branches of the grizzled gum trees that lined either side of the road, fell long strands of rotting moss. The fecund earthy scent of decay seeped from the flowing green- tinged boughs, its fusty odour drifting downwards towards the sticky haze that skirted out in front of them.

 

The children’s daily journey down to the cove where they played was a familiar one and the young boy always set the pace, his barefoot strides quicker than those of his younger sibling. Unable to match her brother’s whirlwind gait she abruptly stopped on the roadside, defiantly rested her tiny hands onto her hips then yelled out to him. “Will yuh slow down, Joseph!” The boy accustomed to his sister’s daily request took no notice of her whine and immediately quickened up, deliberately taking another half dozen lengthy strides, only stopping and turning around after the girl had bellowed out again for him to wait for her. The boy stroked his chin with the tips of his fingers and began to tap the ball of his right foot impatiently on the ground. He stared back down the road then wiped his thin forearm aggressively across his sweating brow whilst he waited for his dawdling sister to finally catch up.

 

The little girl smiled to herself then ran the remaining few yards to reach her disgruntled brother. She came to a weary halt in front of him and stood panting like an over-heated puppy. When she’d finally caught her breath the little girl raised her makeshift fishing rod in the air and defiantly shook it over her head.

 

“Joseph, I’m gonna catch me a big bonefish today.”

 

The boy looked down at his sister, shaking his head. “Girl, don’t be talkin’ doh’tish. Yuh ain’t catching nuthin’ wid dat tatty rod’ at all.”

 

The little girl shot her brother a pained stare. “Yeah… well jus’ yuh wait, I’m’ gonna show yuh.” Joseph sneered back at her, spat a thick wad of saliva at his feet then prodded a damnatory finger into his sister’s face.

 

“Bernice, quit lick moutin’. Yuh ain’t showing me nuthin’. Pickney, I bin dropping a line in de water since befo’ yuh bin suckin’ on Mama’s titties!”

 

Bernice cursed at her brother under her breath then sucked in a stream of warm air through the thin gap in her front teeth. She looked back up at her brother, her eyes squinting into severe slits from the glare of the sun, her face crinkled with child-like anger. “Well yuh look like Mama’s titties!” Joseph stared back blankly at Bernice then raised his right hand out in front of his sister’s face, his middle digit fully extended, giving her the bird then turned sharply on his heels and continued walking briskly along the road.

 

 

 

 

 

The vexed little girl gave a deep sigh then slung the cane rod back over her shoulder and chased after her testy brother, the pair not stopping again for another half mile until they reached the junction of a crossroads. Joseph took hold of Bernice’s wrist, drawing her close to his side and scanned his eyes diligently along either side of the desolate highway for the remote possibility of an approaching passing car, bike or truck. With no approaching vehicles in sight Joseph dropped his hold on his sister’s arm and the two of them quickly crossed over the scorching tarmac and made their way along the unpaved sidewalk until they reached a steep, parched soil embankment which fell down away from the road. Without turning around to her, Joseph again reached out behind him with his left arm and held out the palm of his hand and waited for his sister’s slender fingers to grasp hold of it.

 

The two children climbed down the heavy earth mound into a dense undergrowth of hanging tamarind branches, bright crimson Caesalpinia bushes and sweet ing magnolia shrub and began to walk through the dense canopy of green foliage until they came to a thin sand-blown track between the shaded arch of a row of bowed silk cotton trees. Above their heads they could hear the loud, discordant cries of flock shearwaters and storm petrels as they flew out to sea. Joseph stopped for a moment and looked up at the swooping birds then let go of his sister’s hand and broke out into a sprint along the remainder of the path and down to a thin row of grassy dunes. He climbed up on to the sandy knoll and stood motionless looking out to sea waiting for Bernice to arrive at his side. When she finally joined him on top of the dune the two children gazed down on to the white powdery sand and shady swaying palms and smiled at each other content in an unspoken mutual reverie. They had returned again; back to their secret, hidden world.

 

The sheltered bay with its tranquil shoreline was nestled between two imposing limestone coral rock structures which towered up either side of the secluded basin. Joseph and Bernice ran off the dunes on to the beach across the baking hot sand down to the sea, dropping their fishing rods at the cooling waters edge. Even at low tide the impressive looking small, white- tipped waves had a menacing presence about them. The crystal clear water gracefully ebbed and flowed around the tops of their legs. They both waded excitedly out into the alluring azure-tainted ocean until the sea reached their stomachs then started to swim along a short stretch of the bay, neither forgetting the dangers that lurked beneath them nor the strong currents and dangerous swells and undertows that swept undetected through the cove. The unseen deadly tides were a constant reminder to the two children of their mother’s sombre caution to them each time they left to visit the deserted beach. “Child yuh mind dem waters… De sea it e’n got nuh back door. It tek yuh; yuh gon fo’ever, you ‘ear me?”

 

They swam and dived in the shallow waters for the next hour, finally returning to the shore after Bernice had begun to complain that she was cold and tired. The little girl followed her brother out of the sea, trooping back up on to the beach then dropping down with a heavy thud at Joseph’s side. The little girl threw her gangly legs out in front of her, accidently kicking sand over Joseph as she shook droplets of water and grit from her feet. Joseph shot her a dirty look. Unruffled by her brother’s irritation, Bernice stuck out her tongue then hitched herself a few inches away from him, pulling her knees up towards her chest, tucking her arms around her shins then resting her chin on top of them. She huffed indignantly to herself then stared solemnly out to sea.

 

The two children sat in silence letting the afternoon sun dry the saltwater from their bodies. Joseph was the first to break the stillness with a question.

 

“Yuh ready to go fish, then?”

 

Bernice kept looking out at the ocean and slowly nodded her head then quickly got to her feet, collecting her fishing rod as she did and began to walk slowly through the surf towards the blue hole caves further down the beach. Joseph shot up off the sand and ran to Bernice’s side, noticing the inch long crimson scar on his sister’s lower calf as he inched in front of her to take the lead once again. The claret-coloured lesion had been caused by the toxic sap from a Manchineel tree which Bernice had foolishly climb the previous summer. The fiery plant juice had grazed her skin, burning the flesh and leaving an ugly welt mark; a painful reminder that she should never attempt such a fool-hardy pursuit again. Joseph looked at his sister and smiled to himself quietly registering in his mind that it wouldn’t be the last time Bernice did something foolish.

They stood on the jagged rocks above the caves, on a low promontory that jutted out between a series of deep pools casting their fishing lines out into the sea. By late afternoon they had caught and thrown back over a dozen barjacks and mahogany snapper. The sky had begun to turn a darker blue and at the furthest edges of Joseph’s vision he could just make out the portentous darkening heavens of an approaching storm. The gulf waters below were still lime green but had become streaked with threatening whitecaps, darker patches of deep water, like clouds of ink had begun to drift across the coral reef; another sign to the young boy that bad weather was brewing. Joseph and Bernice collected up their rods and lines and trudged down the steep cliff path back on to Harrismith beach then headed south towards the coast road.

They walked quickly over the soggy sand, the sea water washing away their foot prints before heading back away from the beach, climbing over rocks which were scattered across a series of inter-connecting lagoons. In the distance Joseph could see the multi-coloured fishing boats moored up on tow lines in the harbor at Deborah Bay. A thick, fetid odour suddenly blew in off of the gathering tailwind, it wafted across the children’s faces making Bernice grimace.

 

“What’s dat ?”

 

“Probably yuh breath,” snapped Joseph.

 

“Yuh shut yo’ mout!”

 

Joseph cackled loudly, pleased with his cruel jibe and his sister’s tetchy response to it. Bernice quickly retaliated by splashing water at her brother’s back. The two children continued to taunt and sneer at each other as they pushed on, out across the lagoon away from the blackening clouds in the bay behind them. Joseph continued to walk a few feet in front of his sister, the sour becoming more intense as they crossed over into an ankle-deep inlet which stood between them and the path across to the next cove. They trod carefully in the shallows, both navigating their footsteps away from the sharp coral and the spines of semi-hidden sea urchins. A floating island of kelp bobbed in the water in front of them as they climbed over a sandbar into a another rock pool. That’s when the putrid hum hit and Joseph, out of the corner of his eye, saw a few yards in front of him just what was making all the stink.

 

Underneath the over-hanging branches of a palm nestled in a stagnating salt water-filled depression, was the body of a man. The corpse crawling with ghost crabs, lay face up and was partially dressed in a tattered blue uniform. The head was snatched back, the eyes sunk deep in to his skull and covered in a thin milky film. A thin web of dried algae and sea weed was interwoven through the damp, matted blood-stained grey hair. The skin was as thin as parchment and the colour and texture of tanned, wrinkled damp leather. The arms and hands were liver-spotted and etched with dull, sunken blue veins.

 

Joseph held out his arm behind him, the palm of his hand flat as Bernice approached.

 

“Yuh stay there!”

 

“Why, what yuh seen, Joseph?”

 

“Nuthin! Jus do as I say.” Joseph swallowed hard then took a couple more steps through the water towards the body. He stared down at the man’s bloated face which was burnished with heavy, dark bruising, the mouth yanked wide open, a silent scream emanating from ruptured lips, tarnished a deep purple; the colour of rotting hog plums. The throat stretched taut, revealed a gaping slit which had been carved deep into the flesh above the Adam’s apple. Further down the body barely covering the torso, a buttonless shirt with silver insignia decorated on each lapel was torn open at the midriff exposing a beaten and bloated stomach which hung down towards the man’s thighs like a water-filled balloon.

 

“Lemme see what it is, Joseph…”

 

Joseph, his mouth dry, hesitated before faltering back to his sister. “No, I said stay there.”

 

“But I wanna see.”

 

Joseph without taking his eyes off of the distended cadaver stabbed his finger back at his sister. “No pickney should be seein’ dis.” Bernice took no notice of her brother’s warning and rushed through the water clambering over Joseph’s shoulder, looking down to where the man’s decomposing remains lay. Joseph immediately felt Bernice’s body stiffen then shudder next to his, her voice was muted and crackled with fear when she finally spoke.

 

“That fella a redleg, Joseph?”

 

Joseph shook his head and took a step backwards. “He ain’t no crook… Dis fella, he a po’lice man.”

 

Another flurried gust lifted the unmistakable musk of death up from the water–soaked ground at their feet and draped itself over the children faces like the cursed cloak of a dark angel. Joseph felt a wave of panic shoot through every fibre of his being, the inside of his head felt woolly and began to spin as he heard his sister repeating the words he’d just spoken. He quickly turned back to look at the foreboding, low grey canopy in the darkening sky, the burgeoning storm was now anchored a few miles out in the bay behind them. The palm fronds whipped in the wind above their heads and the sea had begun to turn choppy, the aggressive tide slowing starting to inch its way further in towards them. The approaching waters carried on its spiky edge a thin, white line of surf, its spray spitting violently up into the air. Lightening suddenly forked out in the distance like a shard of fine glass followed by the faint rumble of thunder which trembled inside the gathering clouds.

 

The two children stood over the dead man’s body, a fine sea spray blowing in their faces, the ebony tinged sky above them growling. The clouds sparked inside, their mantle imbued with a blood red stain. Joseph dropped his fishing rod into the water and reached down for his sister’s hand. They began to run, never once looking back. They heard the racked screams of the Obeah unleashed from the floor of the rock pool behind them, its tormented howl swiftly gathered up in the squall which blew in across the cove. The cruel wind clawed at their backs like the hands of the grasping undead and screeched across their path as they bolted back across the dunes; the hot sand underneath their feet stung at their soles like crushed diamonds.

m-p-wright
M.P Wright
Authors Links:
Web: http://www.marjacq.com/m-p-wright.html
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/M-P-Wright-1430454697199972/
Twitter: @EllingtonWright

JT Ellington series:
#1 Heartman
#2 All Through The Night
#3 The Restless Coffins

#Author #Faves Q&A with @EllingtonWright M.P Wright #JT #DiverseNovels @bolindaaudio

M.P Wright is one of my all time favourite writers. As a voracious reader, I knew from only 50 pages in, of the authors debut novel Heartman, that JT as a series, was pure 5* genius! I have since been extremely lucky to have sneak peaks into the authors future releases The Restless Coffins and Holy Bones Blues. I was super excited when the author agreed to feature in a Q&A with my blog and also offer exclusive content!
Welcome to part one of the JT Ellington blog posts!

Heartman HiRes CMYK  All Through The Night

Heartman
Synopsis:
Longlisted for the CWA Ian Fleming Steel Dagger 2015

Bristol, 1965. In the dead of winter, a young deaf and dumb woman goes missing without a trace. But the police just don’t care about a West Indian immigrant who is nowhere to be found.

Enter Joseph Tremaine ‘JT’ Ellington: a Barbadian ex-cop not long off the boat, a man with a tragic past and a broken heart. When local mogul Earl Linney hires him to track down the missing girl, JT soon finds himself adrift in a murky world of prostitution and kidnapping where each clue reveals yet more mysteries. What is Linney’s connection to the girl? Have more women gone missing? And what exactly is the Erotica Negro Club.

Facing hostility and prejudice as well as the demons he left home to escape, JT must unravel a deadly conspiracy in a dangerous and unfamiliar world.

All Through The Night
Synopsis:
“It’s quite simple Mr Ellington. When you find Fowler, just ask where we can find the truth.”

With these words, private detective JT Ellington embarks on a seemingly simple case of tracking down a local GP with a dubious reputation and retrieving a set of stolen documents from him.

For Ellington, however, things are rarely straightforward. Dr Fowler is hiding a terrible secret and when he is gunned down outside a Bristol pub, his dying words send JT in pursuit of a truth more disturbing and deadly than he could possibly have imagined.

Q&A:

Q) I am a huge fan of the JT Ellington series & have shouted loud about it on social media a fair few times. Can you explain to the readers the JT Ellington series, from their roots to publication?

A) Heartman is set in Bristol in 1965. Joseph Tremaine Ellington is a former Barbadian police sergeant who has left the island under a very dark cloud and made his home in the UK. Ellington falls into the mould of the loner detective, created by my crime fiction literary heroes, Dashiell Hammett, Raymond Chandler and Ross MacDonald. It’s very much at the ‘Noir’ end of the crime fiction scale. Dark and labyrinthian in tone. It’s fair to say that the book is influence greatly by the works of the above writers. I’m greatly indebted to those who have gone before me, they led the way for Ellington to become a fully-fledge character in my head. By the time I came to write the story, I had every facet of the man’s life written in a ’Bible’ I’d created for him, family history, Police service record, the whole nine yards.

Heartman was a joy to write, but a devil to get into print. My literary agent, Phil Patterson of the Marjacq agency in London got the Noir feel of the book from the off, and offered me representation a good 12 months before we got a publisher to bite. In fact, we sold the option rights to Heartman to television and World Productions at least six months before we got a publishing deal with Edinburgh based, Black and White Publishing. Like Phil, my publisher, Campbell Brown enjoyed the Noir aspects of the novel, and noted that there was nothing quite like it in UK crime fiction.

Heartman was originally called Rock a Bye Baby Blues and the novel was always intended to be the first of three. By the time it came to editing the book with my wonderful editor, Karyn Millar we had a new title and I was a quarter of the way through writing the sequel, All Through The Night.

Q) One thing I absolutely love about the JT Ellington series, is the characterisation, the whole cast is so unique and so descriptively written, you really grow to love them. What is the process of creating each character & what is their inspiration?

A) First off, and perhaps rather controversially I have to admit that I become angered easily at modern crime fiction writing that lacks character depth.

It’s all well and good creating a ‘Time-worn, loner detective’, but a writer has to put flesh on the bones for that to be believable on the page. The old masters I’ve already mention could get away with being ‘slight’ in their characterisations, modern crime writers, in my opinion shouldn’t fall into that trap. I believe readers like to have as much detail as possible in regards the characters they are reading about. This belief has been borne out by the great response I’ve had from fans of Heartman and the subsequent follow up, you have commented on how much they enjoy becoming part of the characters’ lives. For me it’s a golden rule to impart as much background information about my characters as possible. That includes the villains.

In regards inspiration for the creation of the characters; there’s a great deal of research that goes into every character. I interview a lot. There’s nothing better than for a writer to hear facts and details straight from the ‘Horse’s Mouth’ as it were. Heartman would not have been possible without the generosity of many. I owe a great debt to the Caribbean communities here in Leicester and Bristol. The experiences of many first-generation immigrants from the West Indies was invaluable in my creating rounded and real characters.

Q) In Heartman you reference the Bristol bus boycott, the UK’s version of Rosa Parks. Where one man Paul Stephenson stood up for the rights of black workers, which ultimately led to the race relations act 1965 which made it unlawful to racially discriminate in a public place. What was the inspiration behind featuring this in the backdrop of the novel? Did you always intend to weave facts with fiction?

A) In a word, yes. A book like Heartman would never have worked unless it was strongly factually based. Yes, its crime fiction, but the subject matter, racism, segregation, bigotry are ones that I could not sweep under the proverbial carpet. I wanted to address attitudes to race and racism in the UK in the 1960’s head on. It’s a large part of the book, but it’s not it’s the sum of the novel. At its heart (pardon the pun), Heartman is about family, and the lies and secrets many of us perhaps tell and keep.

Q) JT develops a huge amount between books 1-3. Having read The Restless Coffins, myself, I know what a huge treat is in store for fans of the series. Fans will see changes in JT & learn more about his background. Is it the intention with a character like JT that there will be revelations in each novel?

A) I like to unfurl another layer of the ‘character onion’ in each of the books. As I said, I created a ‘Bible’ for the character and knew the complex world he came from and the importance of passing on that background information to the reader gradually. I wanted the reader to fall in love with the characters as much as I did, to do that successfully you have to offer up personal tit-bits, incrementally. That way it offers a great impact and resonance on the reader.

Q) One thing I really love is the elements of Voodoo, in each novel. Voodoo is something that fascinates most people & I have seen many Fb status regarding the mild hints of Voodoo in the TV series Taboo. Is this something that will remain in every novel? What made you include it in the debut Heartman?

A) The ‘Supernatural’ elements, for want of a better term, are the most enjoyable sections of the books for me when I am writing them. Personally, I’m not a believer in the dark arts, but I am very aware that religions, such as Voodoo have massive followings in the West Indies, and not to have reflected that fact in the books would have been very remiss. I look upon the inclusion of folklore and the ‘spiritual’ elements in all three stories to be vital, and should be considered as respectful nods towards other’s belief systems and the religions that many people embrace across the Caribbean.

I can say that The Restless Coffins see’s Ellington returning home to the island of Barbados, there he encounters superstition and the shadows of the voodoo religion. The title of the book is taken from an incident that occurred in a crypt on the island back in the 1940’s and even earlier, which saw coffins that were kept locked underground in a mausoleum which seemed to move across the ground and change positions. All very odd, and a just a little creepy.

The fourth Ellington novel, The Rivers Of Blood, which I start writing in late August sees J T Ellington back on Bristol turf and will include a splash of the superstition elements that readers found so popular in Heartman.

Q) Can you tell the readers a little bit about yourself & your background?

A) The writer’s nightmare, talking about oneself …

I’d written for twenty years. Told no one. Not parents, Friends, Nobody.

I had previously worked in mental health, the probation service, youth offending and with young people at risk, and for over 20 years. During that time, I wrote. Screenplays, poetry, song lyrics, prose; you name it … I scribbled it down. It wasn’t until I took early retirement and started a creative writing course at the Demontfort university here in Leicester that I started to take my writing seriously.

A wonderful chap, and my former tutor, Damien G Walter, a Guardian columnist and writer himself read a portion of the original Heartman/Rock A Bye Blues draft and advised that I make it into a novel form (It was a TV script), he also advised that I let a literary agent see it upon completion and get myself seen at Crime Fiction Literary Festivals. That’s what I did …

From there a fantastic writer called Emlyn Rees picked up the book and ran with it. He in turn raved about Heartman and should it to my agent, Phil. The rest, as they say, is history.

Q) Within the Heartman series, Racism is a central theme, yet I know that you live in the very multicultural city of Leicester. Do you think there are changes in public opinion? Do novels like yours raise awareness of Britain’s past history of racism, for the younger readers?

A) It would be nice to think so. It was never my intention to get on a soap box and rant about the injustices I saw in the world, but in truth that’s what happened. Heartman is riddled with my own anger, a rage I cannot contain when I see any kind of intolerance and bigotry to my fellow human.

I wanted to impart that sense of anger into the book without it sounding as if I had a personal axe to grind. I wanted the characters to voice my fears and my concerns without it seeming forced and to highlight a time in our history in which we should rightly, not be proud.

I’m very proud to live in Leicester. Proud of its multi-culturalism, I’m also very much in love with the city of Bristol and its people. It’s such a fantastic place to write about.

Q) Do you have any ideas for new series? I know you can’t give too much away, but will you possibly feature other cultures? Will you always write Historical crime novels?

A) I’ve never considered myself to me an historical crime writer. A Reader yes.

I’m a history nut, always have been and I devour historical works and biographies. I ought to come clean and admit I very rarely read modern crime fiction. It’s just not my thing. Working with real criminals for such a long time took the edge of any personal interest I had in reading about serial killers and the likes. I find those kinds of books far-fetched and can never get into the vibe of the narrative.

The exceptions to that rule of thumb are the genius American writers, James Lee Burke and Walter Mosely, who write about crime as a secondary

Whilst concentrating almost on the realities of the world and what’s going on around them. I find that kind of writing has a massive impact on me in the same way that a writer like, William Faulkner did when I was younger.

As for what comes next; I am half way through writing a contemporary novel set here in Leicester. The Holy Bones Blues is my love letter to the city as it is in 2017. It’s a crime novel that reflects on the city’s diverse multi-culturalism. I’m not aware that a modern crime novel has depicted the city in such a way and I’m excited to see the reaction from readers.

I also have a fourth, Ellington novel, The Rivers of Blood to complete by the end of next January. Then there is a collection of short stories featuring my Bajan detective which I hope will be out for Christmas this year. More news to follow on that shortly.

Heartman & All Through The Night are available in paperback & are currently on #Kindle #Ebook for just £1.89.
Heartman has been released in hardback on 28th June 2017 &
All through The Night is set for hardback release on 28th July 2017 from Ulverscroft

@UlverscroftUK  

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The novels will also be available in audio format from Bolinda Audio @Bolindaaudio on the following dates: Heatman 30th June and All Through The Night 28th August.

Vocals by Narrator

Ben Onwukwe
ben o

Ben Onwukwe is a British film, radio, television, theatre and voice actor. He is perhaps best known for appearing as Stuart ‘Recall’ MacKenzie in London’s Burning, a dramatic television series first aired on the British television network ITV.

You can listen to an excerpt here:http://www.bolinda.co.uk/

m-p-wright

M.P Wright
Authors Links:
Web: http://www.marjacq.com/m-p-wright.html
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/M-P-Wright-1430454697199972/
Twitter: @EllingtonWright

*Huge thanks to the author for agreeing to be on my blog and stay tuned for part two of the #JTEllington blog posts planned today, for an exclusive look at The Restless Coffins 🙂