It seemed to be getting hotter by the minute in the Strathdee FM studio. Dave had stripped off to the waist, and rivulets of sweat were running down his brow, joining the ones running down his cheeks like tributaries of a river, then all converging on his chest at the estuary, where they abruptly stopped, being soaked up by his trousers which were wet through right around his waist. There ought to be a law against working in conditions like this, he thought. Then he justified his former thought: But when was anything worthwhile ever easy? But this was only really worthwhile to Mrs Benson now. Frank was away in Spain on business. Dave was her puppet and she held the strings. Do this, do that, and while you’re doing it, do the other! He was supposed to be a radio presenter, but usually ended up also being a plant delivery driver, transmitter engineer and general gopher and dogsbody. She had already been on the phone to him only ten minutes into the show.
“Dave, my darling,” the thick Russian accent usually ended up charming him round to her beck and call. In a way, it made him think of Katharina. “Dave, Archie took the JCB up to Camus Fearn tonight for a job in the morning, and he forgot to take the small ditching bucket. I’d like you to run up there with it after your show. I got him to put it in the back of your pick-up – he’s had to run off to an urgent appointment. Oh and there’s also a twenty-five litre barrel of hydraulic oil in the truck. Please leave that beside the digger. It’s got a leak on the back ram. In fact, could you top up its oil reservoir while you’re up there so it’s ready for the morning? I’ve left a funnel beside the oil.”
“Yes, Mrs Benson!” Of course, Mrs Benson. Three bags full, Mrs Benson, he added silently, making a rude gesture! Urgent appointment indeed! My ass! An urgent appointment with the barmaid in the Station Hotel, more like! Frank Benson also owned the Station Hotel, so any extra business from Archie Murdoch would be welcomed by him – and he could shift some beer!
The David Bowie track was coming to an end, so not bothering to speak again, Dave went straight into the next track which was already cued up. This was one of his all-time favourites. He loved the intro. He loved the anticipation of what was going to blast from the monitor speakers – the anticipation of what was going to blast from all the radios in deepest Aberdeenshire that were tuned in to him. He loved to play a track with a ‘bad’ word in the lyrics every night on the show, just to see if he could get away with it! After all, no one from the Radio Authority would be listening to this station at this time in the morning, would they?
He pressed the ‘play’ button on CD player number two, and Patti Smith’s rebellious voice came in with the rather risky lyrics. He loved the Patti Smith Group, and this track, ‘25th Floor’, personified the lady in his eyes. He sat back and put his feet up on the desk for a few minutes of self indulgence. That lady sure was a rebel – his kind of lady. He couldn’t help it, but this started him thinking of his ‘rebel mermaid’. Where was she now? He wished like hell that she was here right now with him. He imagined her sitting here on his lap, his arm round her waist and his other hand running through her beautiful blonde hair. Just for a fleeting moment, he swore he could even smell her!
Friday morning came round all too soon, and Katharina was up at the crack of dawn. She took a shower, and then put on her new white blouse and black two-piece suit. Along with the new black shoes, she looked every bit the mourning daughter, or the high-flying PA. Today, she would be the mourning daughter. She made herself some toast and coffee, took it through to the living room, and just flopped back into the armchair. She immediately felt more relaxed, and fought off the urge to have a brandy too. Later, she told herself. She finished her coffee and the doorbell rang. It was Johanna, dressed very respectfully. They gave each other big hugs.
“You’re early,” Katharina said, “it’s quarter to ten.”
“Better early than late. Anyway, I wanted to make sure you were all organised. You seem to be.”
“I am. I am. Remember, I don’t want Aunt Petra to start on at me. She can be very bossy. You will have to stay with me all the way today, so please don’t let go of me.”
Johanna assured her, “Don’t worry, my honey, you’re bestest friend in the world will look after you all day. Just make sure you keep hold of my arm all the time. Now, do we have time for a cup of coffee?”
They sat and chatted for the next hour, and at ten to eleven the doorbell rang. It was a smartly dressed chauffeur who escorted them down to a black Mercedes Benz with tinted windows.
For Katharina, the day passed as if she was on automatic pilot. Apart from trying to prevent Aunt Petra from commandeering her, she became quite emotional and started crying a lot. Johanna held her close and whispered reassurances in her ear. She overheard her Aunt Petra say, “Look at the poor girl. She can hardly stand on her own. Poor girl. How terrible for her.” Then Aunt Petra came over to her and hugged her.
“You poor pet. My darling, remember we are always here for you.” She started crying as she spoke. This started Katharina off crying even more. Then Johanna joined in, and the three of them all hugged and cried.
After the funeral, they went to Aunt Petra and Uncle Josef’s house for a drink and sandwiches. Katharina felt numb, and somewhat detached from reality. As the day progressed, she went through the motions, and before she knew it, they were in a taxi heading home. At seven-thirty outside the apartment, she turned to Johanna in the car and said, “Stay with me, Jo, please. Just for tonight. Don’t leave me alone tonight.”
“Of course, my precious Kat, I am always here for you, you know that.”
They went up to the apartment, and Katharina changed out of her suit into her nightclothes while Johanna made some supper in the kitchen. They ate, and then Katharina poured them both a brandy. The TV was on in the corner, but neither of them was watching it closely as they were too busy chatting and reminiscing over happier times. At ten o’ clock, Katharina poured them both another brandy, and Johanna lit a cigarette. Then she said, “After this, I just want to go to bed. It’s been a long and hard day.”
“Where will I sleep, Kat?” Jo asked.
“Oh, I haven’t sorted Papa’s bed – it needs changing. But then it wouldn’t be right to sleep in it tonight, would it?”
“No. You’re right. We must respect him. He would only want you to be happy. What do you want to do, Kat?”
“Will you sleep with me tonight, Jo? We can squeeze together in my bed.”
“OK, Kat, It’ll be just like old times when we used to do sleep-overs.”
Katharina turned the TV off, cleaned her teeth, then went through to her room and climbed into bed.
“I’ve put out a clean nightdress for you on the chair, Jo.”
“Oh, I don’t need it, Kat, I sleep in the nude,” Johanna said, and climbed into bed. Katharina gulped, made a face at the ceiling, and climbed in beside her. They lay there chatting until the wee small hours like two schoolchildren.
Out on the North Sea, Dave Buckingham wasn’t having such a comforting, safe, secure or happy time on Mermaid Radio. He had taken over the desk just over an hour ago from the Canadian DJ Tom Hammond. During Tom’s show, they became aware of a large ocean-going tugboat which had appeared on their starboard side, with its powerful halogen spotlights trained on the Mermaid, totally flooding the ship with light. Tom had mentioned this fact on his show, and put out an urgent request on air for someone in the Mermaid Club to contact them immediately on their dedicated ship-to-shore frequency. His show was becoming quite dramatic as he gave out a detailed description of this tugboat in between the records.
By now, Captain Visser had trained the Mermaid’s halogen spotlights on the tugboat, and could see it was called the Smit Samson, and was registered in Nassau in the Bahamas. He came down from the bridge to the studio, and said to Dave, “I have Mr Bentley on the VHF radio-telephone. Something is being very wrong. Very wrong. He wants speak with you. You come.”
Dave faded the record that was playing, then opened the microphone fader and said, “We now have more information for you about what is going on out here. We have, at present, a large ship drifting on our starboard side. It is a large ocean-going tugboat called the Smit Samson. We don’t know why it is here, and it is not answering any calls our captain is putting out to it on the VHF radio. It is training its spotlights on us, and the situation is becoming slightly menacing. We have our managing director Frank Bentley on the radio-telephone right now, and he wants to speak to me. I am going up to the bridge to take the call, and in the meantime we shall play you some continuous music. Please stand by for more news as it happens.”
He pressed the ‘play’ button on the tape deck which they used to play continuous pre-recorded music when it was too stormy to play records, then he went upstairs to the bridge.
Captain Visser handed Dave the microphone, and he pressed the ‘speak’ button.
“Frank, it’s Dave, over.”
“Dave, this is Frank. You will see you have a large ship alongside you. I am listening to your show and you have described the Smit Samson, which is an ocean-going tug belonging to the Smit Salvage Company. Over.”
“Frank, what the hell is going on? Over.”
“Dave, this isn’t going to be easy. To put it bluntly, we are in the shit. Waist-deep at the moment, but by morning – up to our necks. Over.”
“Frank, you’re making me very mad, now what the hell is happening? Over.”
“Dave, you’ve got to get out of there. The ship is going to be seized and towed away. Over.”
“Are you going to tell me why, Frank? Over.”
“Right, very quickly, when we purchased the Mermaid from the liquidators, they had no legal title to sell it. We were stitched up. There was a writ served on the vessel by Smit Salvage for huge outstanding transportation costs from Bermuda, incurred by the Werner brothers. The writ had been removed when we looked at the vessel. The liquidators and the Werner brothers have all disappeared, and it looks like we’re left holding the baby – and they want their baby back! But they don’t just want the ship, Dave; they say they’re going to sue us for half a million to cover the recovery costs and everything else. It would cost us about half a million to fight this lot, so I think we should cut and run. Over.”
“Shit, Frank, this is a mess! Can’t you do something? Get the police or the coastguard, or something? Over.”
“The police and the coastguard are coming out in the morning, Dave. But they’re supporting the Smit Samson while it cuts our anchor chain and tows us in. And these guys have guns! Over.”
“What are you doing about it? Are we in danger? Over.”
“Dave, listen carefully. I suggest that you leave the ship as soon as you can. The others can go with the ship to port. It may be getting towed to Belgium. You are a one percent owner of the station; therefore you are named on the recovery order. Your good lady Katharina is also a one percent owner, and I will be contacting her. Are you with me so far? Over.”
“What will happen to Katharina? Over.”
“Nothing, I hope, if she keeps a low profile. You must take the rigid inflatable boat before dawn and head for England. There are full tanks of fuel on board – make sure you take plenty. Take food and drink, and Dave, wear a life jacket. Over.”
“For Christ’s sake, Frank, how can you spring something like this on us just like that? Over.”
“It’s been sprung on me, Dave. I’ve got a private plane chartered for midnight. After I speak to you, I’m off to a private airfield and taking off for Spain. I’m going to lay low for a while at a mate’s villa. You head for your parents’ house and I’ll contact you there. Oh, I nearly forgot, we’ll also have Super-Waffles, Friday Girl, Poparama and Media-Ads International chasing our asses to get their money back. Over.”
“Looks like I’ve got no choice. So this is it then. It’s been nice knowing you, Frank. Best of luck, and see you sometime. Over.”
“Best of luck to you, my boy. And you will see me soon – I promise. I will make this up to you – you can count on it. Over and out.”
For a moment, Dave thought this was a promise he could well do without. When Frank Bentley goes belly-up, he does it more spectacularly than anyone.
Dave turned to the captain and said, “Did you follow what that was all about?”
“Yes. Is bad. Is very bad.”
“Right, I want you to speak to all the Dutch DJs and crew. I’ll speak to Tom. You lot can do what you want, I’m leaving in the RIB and Tom can come with me if he wants.” Looking at a chart on the desk, Dave asked the captain, “Where are we on this?”
With a huge index finger, Captain Visser pointed to a mark pencilled in on the chart with a circle drawn around it. “Here. We are here.”
It was about twenty miles off the Dutch coast, opposite the Dutch/Belgian border, and he reckoned about a hundred and twenty to a hundred and forty miles from Frinton-on-Sea, if he headed in a west-south-westerly direction.
“How fast does the RIB go?” he asked the captain.
“Oh, about forty knots maximum, but for best fuel economy, twenty knots is good.”
Dave was calculating in his head, and speaking out loud to himself, “Let’s see, if we kept at twenty knots, it would take about six or seven hours to hit land. If we put on a few spurts of speed, we might get it down to four or five. Then we’d have to find Frinton. OK, Captain, thank you. I will go down now and speak to Tom.”
When he entered the studio, Tom was already there. It was ten to eleven, and the non-stop music tape was still playing. He gave Tom a quick résumé of the situation, and said, “What do you think, mate?”
“I think the whole damned world’s gone crazy,” he drawled, “but I think we’d be crazy to stick around. Let’s run the Mermaid Club tape at eleven instead of the usual time, then get the hell out of here!”
At three minutes to eleven, Dave faded the music and opened the mike.
“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, this is Dave Buckingham on board the MV Mermaid, the home of Mermaid Radio. As you are probably aware, we have a developing situation out here on the North Sea, which will result in changes to our scheduled programming. At present, we have a large ocean-going tug, the Smit Samson, standing by on our starboard side. The tug’s intentions are to cut our anchor chain, and tow this vessel into port by morning. This would normally be a gross act of piracy on the high seas, but in this case they have legal documents endorsing their proposed actions. Without going into too much detail, we feel we owe it to our thousands of loyal listeners to give an explanation of what is going to happen in the next six to eight hours.
“We, at Mermaid Radio, have only one aim in mind, and that is to provide you, our loyal listeners, with the very best in entertainment at absolutely no cost to yourselves. We are not here to defraud anyone, and we are certainly not here to fight or endorse violence of any kind whatsoever. However, it has just come to my attention that the Mermaid organisation has itself been defrauded in relation to the purchase of this vessel, and we do not appear to have legal title to it. The people on the large tug intend to seize this ship as compensation towards huge transportation costs incurred by the previous owners, who, just to make matters worse, have disappeared. These people mean business, and by morning, the police and coastguard will arrive and assist them in the recovery of the vessel. They will be armed, and it is the intention of the tugboat crew to cut our anchor chain with an oxy-acetylene burner and tow this ship into port, probably in Belgium. We are not intending to resist or fight. We are not out to become heroes. We have no interest in causing any injuries or deaths; we are only here to provide you the listener with your favourite music. At eleven pm, we will run our overnight recording of the Mermaid Club, and then at some point throughout the early morning, transmissions will cease from this station.
“Well, that’s about it from me, Dave Buckingham, it’s been a real pleasure making you all part of my life. I hope I have enriched yours, even in a small way. And Katharina, if by any chance you are listening, I love you darling and I will be in touch with you as soon as I can. Good night darling, and sweet dreams. Tom, have you anything to add?”
Tom Hammond leaned over to the mike. “Thanks Dave. No, I don’t think so; you did it all so well. By the way, can I say you’re looking very fetching tonight in that cream polo top?” You could always rely on Tom to defuse a situation by camping it up a bit! “Seriously though, Dave, it’s been a real pleasure to have been part of this big happy family for the past few months, and I’ve just loved all our listeners. Haven’t they been great? It looks like it’s a big goodbye from all of us meantime, but if I know our boss-man as well as I think I know him, this won’t be the end of Mermaid Radio. I could more or less stake my wallet on it that he’ll be back in some shape or form with another station for you all. And considering all my worldly wealth is in my wallet, that’s some gamble!”
“Thanks Tom, I’ll second that, and I’ll say a huge thank you to our managing director, Frank Bentley, and all the staff at the Mermaid Club for treating us so well, and providing us with such a wonderful radio station for you, the wonderful listeners. Without you all, we wouldn’t be here. From Dave Buckingham, it’s a very tearful goodbye, and take care. Bye bye, now.”
“And from me, Tom Hammond, au revoir. See you guys around somewhere.”
Dave finished off with, “This is Mermaid Radio serving the UK and the Benelux countries. It’s eleven pm, and for the final time, we invite you to the Mermaid Club in Scheveningen.” He pressed the ‘play’ button on the tape deck, then leaned back and let out a big sigh.
“Right, that’s it,” he said firmly, “let’s get packed and get out of here.”
They went to their cabins, gathered their things together, and put them in rucksacks. Then they went to the galley and raided the larder. They filled a large holdall with bread, tins of corned beef, Spam, fruit, bars of chocolate, cans of juice and beer, (get the priorities right, thought Dave!), and bottled water. The RIB was already equipped with a first aid kit, self-igniting flares, powerful searchlight and a VHF ship-to-shore radio. Dave also took his small transistor so they could monitor what was happening back on the ship.
The rigid inflatable boat was quite a craft in its own right. It was orange and black, about eighteen feet long with a central binnacle which contained the steering wheel, instrument panel including speedometer, fuel gauge, compass and two-way radio. Behind the controls was a captain’s chair, complete with armrests and a full safety harness. There were seats for six passengers, all with safety harnesses. The storage locker was under the decked-in bow, and as this part of the boat usually remained out of the water as it surged along, everything in there kept quite dry. Propulsion was by a seventy-five horse power outboard motor, with a twenty-five horse power outboard motor on stand-by for emergencies.
Down on the aft deck, Dave lowered the RIB from the derrick where it was kept, to just above sea level. They loaded their bags, checked the fuel tanks, and lowered it the final three feet into the North Sea. They were on the port side of the ship, so they hoped no one aboard the tugboat saw what was happening. If they did, they didn’t seem to bother. Dave released the winch hook, and once Tom was aboard, he started the engine which fired up first time. He turned the wheel and moved away slowly from the Mermaid so as not to cause any noise or wash, which would attract attention. It was very strange looking back at the ship becoming smaller and smaller as they headed west. Dave increased the throttle until they were doing twenty knots, and he set his bearing at west-south-west as best as he could. All they could do now was sit back and enjoy the ride. They had left at midnight on the dot, so Dave reckoned they should see land by six am, and hopefully reach Frinton by eight am.
The sea was very calm with just a slight swell, which was lucky, and there was a full moon which also helped. There wasn’t much to see, but after an hour they could make out a flare stack in the distance, lighting up the sky and the sea with an eerie orange glow.
“No oil rigs in this area,” shouted Dave to Tom, “must be a North Sea gas rig.”
“Wonder if they’ve got any jobs going,” was Tom’s reply. “Hey, Dave, wouldn’t it be a laugh if we turned up there on the boat and shouted up to them, ‘any jobs?’”
“One thing’s for sure, Tom, these guys are earning more than we ever could.”
By now, the Mermaid had completely disappeared from view. From time to time, they saw little boats and some ships passing in the distance, their lights twinkling.
“Hey Dave.” Tom shouted over the noise from the engine, “If we weren’t in such a desperate situation, this would be quite a pleasant trip. All we need is a fishing line over the side.”
“Thanks for the confidence booster, Tom. I was beginning to think our situation had improved!”
“Dave, give her some gas and let’s see what she can do.”
Dave eased the throttle lever slowly up to full. The bow raised itself up higher, the stern sat squatter in the water, the wake behind them began to look like distressed cream soda and the boat threw out wide plumes of water at either side like huge butterfly wings.
“WOW! We’re really shifting!” Tom shouted, like an excited schoolboy.
Dave joined in, “FANTASTIC! We’re up to forty-five knots now, and that’s her flat out.”
They had to really shout now. Tom yelled, “Keep her at that for an hour and we’ll make up some time.”
They slowed down after about forty-five minutes to twenty knots, and Dave got out his little radio. He tuned to Mermaid’s frequency and looked at his watch - four o’ clock. They had been going for four hours. He cut the throttle right back to a slow idle and the boat almost stopped. Now he could hear the radio, and the Mermaid Club programme was still going out on air. “Well, the ship’s still there, Tom.”
“Oh yeah? Well, do you wanna go back?”
Dave held his fist up in the air triumphantly and shouted, “Frinton here we come!”
Tom suggested, “We’ll check the radio again at five, ‘cos that’s when the club recording will finish. Remember, we started it an hour early.”
“OK.” Dave said, then in his best ‘tour guide’ voice, he continued, “Ladies and gentlemen, if you care to look behind you, you will see the best damned sunrise to be seen anywhere. If you look to your right, you will see water, and if you look to your left, you will also see . . . wait a minute . . I do believe it’s water! And if you look straight ahead, you will see . . . Tom . . . TOM . . . LOOK – IT’S LIGHTS! Tom, there are lights ahead. LOOK! Loads of them twinkling. It’s Mother England!”
“That sure is a beautiful sight,” Tom said. “This is the best darned boat trip I’ve ever been on. Pity the bar’s closed and I forgot my camera!”
“The bar’s open, mate. Remember we’ve got beer.” Dave went to the front locker and brought out two bottles. “Time to celebrate. Here’s to Mother England, and may we set foot on her soon! Only trouble is, mate, that could be any one of nine towns between Lowestoft and Southend. We’ll wait until we’re a lot nearer, then cruise along the coast until I recognise anything. Our best bet is to look out for Walton Pier or Clacton Pier. Walton is the northernmost one and that’s where my folks live, and if we find that, we’re home and dry.”
They put the speed back up to thirty knots and settled back to enjoy the rest of the trip, but keeping an eye out for landmarks.
After another hour, it was broad daylight and they could even see cars going along the coast.
Dave had a brainwave. “Tom, there’s a tower in Walton called the Naze Tower. You can’t miss it. It’s been guiding sailors for almost three hundred years, so we’ll use it too. We’ll spot that before we see any piers because the coast’s so damned flat. My folks live in Naze Park Road which is near the tower. We have to go north of the tower, hug the coast past the cliffs, then with a bit of luck depending on the tide, we can come right round the back of Walton where it’s all little narrow inlets and islands, find somewhere to tie up the boat, then walk up to the house.”
“Sounds good, Dave, do you reckon your folks will have breakfast on?”
“They damned well better had!”
They were getting so close to land now that they could make out individual houses and vehicles.
Dave shouted, “What’s the most important thing we don’t have, Tom?”
“A can opener.”
“Well, that too. I meant binoculars.”
“The Spam and corned beef have got their own keys, but they always break with me!”
“Don’t worry about food, Tom; we’ll have a full English breakfast at my folks. What day is it?”
Tom thought for a minute. “Sunday. No, wait a minute, Friday. No . . . we left on Friday night, so that makes it Saturday. What year is it?”
“1987, Tom. 1987.”
“Look,” Dave shouted after a few minutes, “I’m sure that’s Frinton. I was out here once sailing with a friend of my dad’s, and I recognise it. I’m going to swing round and head north. Watch out for the tower thing.”
Twenty minutes later, they saw it.
“Naze Tower,” shouted Dave, leaping up from his seat. “We’ve made it. Now all we’ve got to do is go round the headland and slip into the backwaters.” When they entered the sheltered water, they cruised along at ten knots past lots of moored boats.
“Look, Tom, my parents’ house is just on the other side of that green area. There’s an old rickety jetty here somewhere. We’ll tie the boat up and walk up to the house. It should take us about twenty minutes. I can smell the bacon and eggs already!”
They found the jetty, secured the boat and unloaded their bags.
“Look – no customs!” said Dave. “We could be anyone from anywhere smuggling anything!”
Tom said, “But it’s only us from the Mermaid with some contraband Spam! Hey, wait a minute – we forgot to check the station again. Get the radio out.”
Dave switched it on – nothing. No station, not even a carrier wave. Just an empty spot on the dial where Mermaid Radio used to be.
“Well, seems like it’s curtains for the old girl,” he said. “Let’s get some grub.”
They had to walk through a marshy area to start with, and got their feet a bit wet, but soon they were on solid ground, and then they were on Naze Park Road. Dave felt very strange as they walked up his garden path and rang the doorbell.
His mother answered the door, and let out a scream. His father came running to the door to see what was wrong, and they both shouted “David! It’s you!”
After the initial shock had subsided, they went in and Dave introduced his folks to Tom. Then Dave said, “Dad, you’ve always wanted a boat, haven’t you? Here’s a present for you,” and he threw the keys over to him. “It’s moored at the old jetty down the backwater. Now, any chance of some breakfast?”
“Of course, son, I think we can do you a good breakfast in exchange for a boat! Now, sit down and tell us what’s been going on.”
They shovelled the full English breakfast down in record time, and then sat talking for an hour. Then Dave realised they hadn’t slept for ages.
“Any chance we can get some sleep for the rest of the day? We’re shattered!”
“Of course, dear,” his mother said, “both the beds are made up in your room.”
They went to bed and immediately fell asleep. Dave’s dad went down to the jetty with a neighbour to inspect the boat. His neighbour had a private mooring which was empty, so they took the boat for a little spin round the backwater, and then moored it safely on the private mooring.
At precisely the same time, Frank Bentley was arriving at his friend’s Spanish villa. The chartered Piper aircraft had picked him up on schedule at the private airfield. Right on time, it touched down on a quiet Spanish desert airstrip. Waiting for him there, was a helicopter. At the controls was Ronnie Marsh, Frank’s friend.
Ronnie would describe himself as an international business man, entrepreneur and gentleman. Frank would describe him as a crook. Frank knew Ronnie as a customer of the Mermaid Club. Ronnie knew Frank as someone who knew just a little bit too much about him. There was quite a lot of mutual respect going on, and each man treated the other with a certain amount of suspicion. It was a good friendship, and had also proved to be very handy in tricky situations such as this one.
Frank didn’t know the exact details of how Ronnie came by his millions – he didn’t want to know – but he was aware that it was something to do with a huge corporate misdemeanour. Ronnie had engineered the perfect crime. It had been committed by a computer while Ronnie had the perfect alibi – he was with friends on the veranda of his Spanish villa, and there was nothing o