He could even have sworn that it moved once after he'd been staring at it for a while. When he slept at night, he didn't dream about Mary any more - he dreamt about the tree. It had a slit in its trunk that was shaped like a mouth and in his dreams it spoke to him. He knew it had to be the drink . He got so that he was scared of falling asleep, so he'd go downstairs to the living-room instead, with a winter coat on over his pyjamas.
Some people jist cannae cope.
He'd look up while he was talking and all the time it seemed as if he'd just missed something - a movement of one of the branches out of the corner of his eye, a quivering of the small leaves as though a breeze of air had just rushed through the house. Then, one night, he dreamt that it got out of its pot. The leaves shook and quivered with energy, the branches twisted, contracted and flexed like muscles and with one jump it cleared the table and landed on the floor. It's roots shone black with moist earth and scuttled along the carpet like disembodied hands dragging the tree behind them. He was lying on the sofa, unable to move and all he could think about was the mess it was making on the floor - all that earth and mud.