One more day nearly over. I sit in my usual spot on the verandah, gazing over the weedy patch of garden and into the trees where the noisy sparrows come home to roost. There are great flocks of them, chattering nineteen to the dozen, happily playing tag before bedtime. Do they ever notice me sitting here, so still, so alone, always envious of their querulous companionship?

Twilight, the saddest, bleakest part of the day, with the light bleeding rapidly away; twilight brings back memories and regrets. Oh, where is everyone? My wife, dead for many years, taken away by cruel cancer; my children dying one by one before their time as though the sins of the father must be visited upon his offspring in accidents and disease and murder, all except one, the estranged one who is living far away across the seas. I write him letters nearly every day: "Son, I am only an old man. How can you not forgive me after twenty years? Son, you must understand, I was only an obedient slave to the powers that were. They used me like an appliance in the trial that shook the nation." Letters that I write and then tear up because we have been through this so many times before. Yet, each time I hold the pen in my hand, I think I can write an explanation so striking, so convincing as to deliver him the lightning flash of insight. But I know I cannot. So I sit and watch the sparrows fly.

Strange that I can barely remember last week, but the events of twenty years ago have sharpened to the polish of knives. That packed courtroom, the public gallery all eye and ears, the reporters, the gesticulating lawyer, the scared witness in the box with his downcast eyes and low voice because we all knew that he was lying, and Anwar himself, so calm, so collected as though he was already past caring. I think of him and the light of my memory is as glaring as the noonday sun, not so much memory as shards of glass to pierce the innards of my soul.

At the market, I ran into Ramasamy a few days ago. He is the only one who will not turn his eyes away from mine. He was kind enough to take me to a coffee-shop where we chatted the afternoon away as old men are wont to. We talked of the most mundane matters but, just before we parted, he made a most curious remark. He said: "Augustine, whatever they say, I will always believe that you made the right decison about Anwar." I shook his hand but said nothing. Oh, What could I have said?

Ramasamy, you can't not have known. Of course it was a travesty of justice. The whole purpose of that show trial was to convince the nation of Anwar's imaginary crimes. Ramasamy, you were only being kind. The prosecution dragged in the most ugly evidences, but their witnesses were discredited one by one despite the fact that I gave the defence so little room until, finally, there was no case at all. Even the man in the street could tell, but I was the all-powerful judge; I did not throw it out. I still pronounced him guilty on all four charges. That was what Mahathir wanted. And then I sentenced him to six years jail. It was savage but that was also what Mahathir wanted. Oh, what else could I have done? That cruel man, that dictator: he was always invisibly there all the time, pulling my strings. He stopped at nothing to satisfy his cruelty. It was nothing to him to use all the apparatus of government to achieve his end, nothing to him to sacrifice innocent lives like Anwar, Sukma, Munawar and Datuk Nalla.

And, after Anwar's conviction, with the nation disgusted and divided, I began to have my doubts. But in those days, I could sweep them all aside; I was part and parcel of the corruption in the judiciary, the government, the ruling party, and I shared in the tainted rewards. I was decorated with titles and promoted to the Bench of the Federal Court. Rumours were circulating of my nomination for the ultimate prize — the post of Chief Justice — when the broom came. Like many, I chose to resign rather than face removal.

I sometimes dream that I acted very differently from the expectations of the powers that were. I dreamt that I acquitted Anwar of all charges in one blazing moment of truth and justice: the jubilation in the streets, the worldwide applause, the consternation of the government who had thought it could not lose. And Mahathir would have found some airy-fairy charge to throw me into prison and possible torture, but I would have become a hero. Mahathir would have fallen quickly after, and the nation would have escaped great distress in the decade that followed.

But these are only thin, insubstantial dreams. It's easy to be brave in hindsight but you cannot turn back time and tide. Now, for me, there is only the blackness and the sleepless nights. What happens after death? An old man at death's door thinks too much of these things: God's justice, lost souls, eternal torment in lakes of burning fire. I pray every day and the Reverend Peters visits me once a week to assure me of God's forgiveness. But can I ever forgive myself? 

It's all dark now, the sparrows are quiet but the mosquitoes are biting. I must go inside, turn on every lamp to dispel the shadows — I have become like a child once more, afraid of the dark, but a child without a mother — and perhaps try once more to write that letter. I hope God will take me tonight in a small, quiet hour of sleep but, if not, I'll be here again tomorrow to watch the sparrows fly.

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It was on the train going from Singapore to KL that I broke down. The carriage was almost full and I was sitting beside an elderly Malay woman. Facing us were an Indian man and a young Chinese male. They were a chatty lot but could not succeed in drawing me into their conversation. I'm never very good with strangers anyway. I preferred to sit quietly and watch the country race by, even after darkness had shut down the landscape.

I would have been all right, looking out of the window and making a brief comment now and then to show that I was not being unsocial, but then, they starting talking about our new PM and the good things he had already done to clean up the government. The young Chinese was especially enthusiastic. He observed: "I think we'll soon be seeing an end to corruption, cronyism and nepotism. An independent judiciary and a free press. It's about time I say."

Yes, it's about time but it's twenty years too late. And it's all my fault. There was a key moment in the nation's history at the turn of the century and I was part of it. Yes, it was all the lies I told that helped convict Anwar Ibrahim twenty years ago in the awful, grosteque trial. The poor, innocent victim, he never had a chance in that kangaroo court. Feeling a lump in my throat, I turned away to stare out at the night lights flashing past and then I burst into tears.

As heads swung in our direction, the elderly Malay woman took my hand and said many soothing words. "My dear, you have a very sad soul." The Chinese man got up and said he would fetch me a glass of water while the Indian man called for a doctor in the carriage. Oh, they were all so kind, so full of concern, but that only made me cry harder. "You don't understand," I blurted out. "I'm Ummi Hafilda Ali." That seemed to make no impression on the faces around me, but I could feel the hand in mine grow suddenly limp. I think only she remembered.

Luckily, we were nearly at Kuala Lumpur and I managed to compose myself by thinking of the bottle of whisky that awaited me in my bedroom at journey's end. (I know it's not halal but, in my position, what other comfort is there left for me in this world?) They were all quieter, as though mindful of my delicacy but oh! if they could only have looked inside my head. I called myself a lying bitch, a prostitute, an evil-doer, and is there any abuse more hurtful than self-condemnation? I know it's no use, but I cannot get rid of that voice.

The voice that pursues me night and day and even into the land of sleep. It keeps asking me: "Why? Why?" I say that it's not me but Daim Zainuddin, Megat Junid and Rahim Thamby Cik, I say that I was only a tool in their grand conspiracy. But still it keeps badgering me: "Why? Why?" Oh, I was so young and foolish then. There was the money of course, and there was the publicity. I swept into court with my designer clothes and my hair beautifully done. It was so easy to lie, even on oath. But money and publicity have both fled in company with my youth. There is nothing left now for me to fill an empty heart.

I started, suddenly realising that the Indian man has been asking me a question. "Excuse me, is there anyone to meet you at the station." I smiled and said, "It's all right, I'll just take a taxi back home." But he was just too kind. "My son is meeting me. If you like, he can give you a lift back." I thanked him but declined the offer.

Of course there's no one. My own family shunned me even before the trial was over and I was not allowed back into my father's house. Even when Mak died, they would not let me attend her funeral. And as for the one brother who stood by me, we quarrelled soon after the trial and I have not seen him since. He had been hanging on to me, playing the good brother, but really only hoping to share in some of my publicity. Unfortunately, it proved to be of a very negative sort.

And I've had a couple of disastrous relationships, crass, greedy men who basically only had two things on their minds: sex and money. What have they given me in return except abuse and recriminations? Men! I want nothing more to do with them. After all, would any decent man want me? That's all right, I live alone and I go for holidays on my own. I think I do quite well — most of the time — and there's always the bottle of whisky on a really bad night. Maybe one day .... but no, I'm already too old.

So we rolled into the Kuala Lumpur Railway Station in a loud clatter of wheels. Out of the train and on to the bright platform swarming with men, women and children come to meet their loved ones. The Indian man had his son, his son's wife and a couple of excited grandchildren tugging at his sleeves. I decided to steal away before he could renew his offer of a lift. So I walked rapidly away, pulling a luggage along. Perhaps he did turn his head just in time and, seeing my back, pitied me for being so lost, so alone.

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It was the bitch made me do it. You know that stupid bitch? Ummi Hafilda Ali, yes that's her name. I never wanted to be mixed up in all the dirt. But the stupid bitch, she kept coming at me and telling me this and that. Whaa! So much money, powerful people backing us and all that. So at last I gave in. She wrote the letter and I signed it. It was the worst mistake of my life.

Anyway, I meet that stupid bitch walking in Chow Kit. "You still alive?" I say to her sarcastically. She looks me up and down, sort of pityingly you know. Maybe she looks at my dirty clothes and my unwashed hair and she feels so high up. Anyway her clothes are not that new-looking. Not like last time she was in court, twenty years ago. Designer clothes and all that, beautiful hair-style. Now she looks like an old woman with her grey hair. She fifty-one now I know, but looks even older, maybe sixty and much thinner. And then she says softly, 'Azizan, apa khabar?"

I start to walk away without answering. Why should I have to talk to her? I've got nothing to say to a stupid bitch after so many years. But she runs after me. "Azizan," she says. "You don't look well. Here's fifty ringgit. Please take it."

I take the money and I spit on it, then I throw it to the ground. "Sial!" I say and keep walking. But around the corner, I wait for a little while. And then I go back to look for the money but it's already gone. Maybe the filthy bitch picked it up and cleaned off my spit and put it back into her handbag. I want that fifty ringgit but I don't want her to know. I think she only offered the money to insult me.

So I go and have my morning teh tarik underneath the rain tree. Param, the stall owner, greets me with: "Hi kawan! How's the sodomy today?" There was a time when I could have killed him for that. But nowadays, I just reply, "You want to see my arse or what?" After all, he gives me free teh tarik when I'm really down.

That's the problem with standing up in court and telling that you've been sodomized fifteen times. If they believe it, it's bad for my reputation; if they don't believe it, it's even worse. I think most people don't believe it. That's why I get all the hate and the jokes. They say I insulted my country, my race and my religion. They say that I helped destroy a good man. Datuk Seri Anwar Ibrahim and Datin Seri Wan Azizah, they were good people. They always treated me well when I was their driver. Oh, why did I let the stupid bitch persuade me? She's really one sick woman. Once you got dragged in, you had to go all the way.

I ask Param if he has heard of any jobs from his customers. He says someone said they are looking for labourers at the Ampang construction site. Maybe I check it out later because I need some money soon. But right now I want a smoke. I ask Param for a cigarette. He gives me a couple and because he's in good mood this morning, never asks for payment.

So I sit at the table under the rain tree and I blow smoke rings. Very nice and shady with the sun shining through the leaves and the birds making lots of noise above my head. It really is peaceful at this time because no one else around. All busy at work and then they go home to the wife and kids. Nice cooked meal, television, play with the kids or with the computer. Why I mess up my life like this for? I should have a wife and kids but which woman want to marry a man who says he has been sodomized? So forget it. Maybe it's better like this, sit under the tree and blow smoke rings all day. You know what I really want now? I want some ganja but my pocket is light.

I started smoking ganja after the trial because I felt so bad. During the trial, I had to tell all the filthy lies because as I say, once you got dragged in, you have to go all the way. But I tried to tell them in such a way that the judge would not believe me. Deep in my heart, I hoped that the judge would free Datuk Seri Anwar Ibrahim. But the stupid judge, he sent Datuk Seri to jail many years. They all say, he scared of Mahathir. 

I was so sad and then everyone blaming me, insulting me, making all those jokes about sodomy. They said that Allah took away my wife and unborn child because of my sins. But why Allah don't take me? I am the guilty one, not my wife and unborn child. I got a lot of money from Daim Zainuddin but then I wasted it all on drinks, on prostitutes, on drugs and on big-time gambling. Because I was so sad you see.

So now the money all gone and the expensive cars all gone. So now I just walk all over the city, loafing here and there, don't know what to do with my life and at night I go back to that dirty shack to sleep. If I really need money I find some work, otherwise, why bother brother? Some people ask me why I'm like this. I tell them it's because I'm angry. I'm angry all the time at Ummi, the judge, the prosecutor, Mahathir, Daim, Megat, Rahim Tamby, Rahim Noor, the SB police even though this thing happened twenty years ago. But in my mind it's like last week. Some say that I'm mentally disturbed but it's not true. I'm not mentally disturbed, I'm just angry at all the things they did to Datuk Seri and my part in it. Sometimes, I walk and walk and the city doesn't seem quite real. The people don't seem real, the shops don't seem real and the cars don't seem real. It's like walking in the middle of a dream and everything is so thin it can blow away like smoke.

I saw Datuk Seri one more time you know, just after he came out of prison a few years ago. I waited outside his house where he can't see me behind a tree. I waited a long, long time and at last he came out with Datin in a car that someone else was driving. Datuk Seri, he spent so long in prison that I nearly cannot recognise him. It was very quick and then they were gone. But I was so sad that I cried. It's been twenty years since I last cried. Maybe I go and beg Datuk Seri for forgiveness one day. But I don't know when that day will be.

Param joins me under the rain tree because there are no more customers. He asks me about old times because he likes to hear the story of my life again and again. I don't mind telling him again and again. As usual, I start my story like this: "It was the bitch made me do it. You know that stupid bitch? Ummi Hafilda Ali, yes that's her name."

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