inside a dirty stairwell with a group of 15 addicts

I was quite pleased to see my story about the Swedish birds in Spain was linked to one of your entries recently, so I've decided to tell another adventure from Málaga.

We had again left our Spanish resort town to go into the city for a weekend. Two mates in our study abroad course and myself were sitting in a square, drinking litres of beer and more of the litre glasses of cuba libre from Blanco Y Negro, eyeing the lovely Spanish women roaming about in droves.

Two Swedish mates, with whom we had went clubbing and smoked some spliffs in the past, came wandering into the square about halfway into our session. They were searching for some speedball, an extremely potent combination of heroin and cocaine, quite cheap in this part of the world. (Note: for those who don't know, Swedish culture is notoriously anti-drug, and they tend to either be repulsed when in a drug-friendly society, or to go off the end, but I digress).

Neither of them spoke Spanish, and they managed to convince me to go "just around the corner" with them and a dodgy-looking bloke. They promised a share of what they purchased as reward. I acquiesced on a different promise of free pints all night.

However, after walking for forty minutes I was becoming quite agitated with the Spaniard, who kept telling me it was "only five more minutes," for another half-hour! By this stage, we were in a well dodgy neighbourhood, with small gangs of hooligans sitting on park benches and eyeing us menacingly. Even the Spaniard was nervous, and told me to keep the Swedish (and very non-native blonde) blokes from speaking their language so loudly.

We ended up in a block of flats, about fifteen stories tall. The stairs were not lit at all; we walked single-file behind the Spaniard, who would stop on each floor and peer about with a cigarette lighter before advancing. I nervously clutched my now-empty one litre bottle behind my back, determined to hit out at anyone in the pitch black if I should be grabbed or touched.

Eventually on the eighth floor, we were let into a small flat and told to wait in the kitchen. Another fat bloke came in after what seemed an eternity with two small paper twists of speedball. My mates were clearly not content with the quantity, but I managed to convince them that it was probably in our best interest to just leave.

The Spaniard took us back down and went to a night shop to buy some aluminum sheets on which to smoke it. As we were walking back towards the block of flats, he told us to hurry, as about 15 people were following us. Clearly they knew what my mates had on them, as there really is no other need so pressing as to require a 1:00 AM purchase of aluminum sheets. We re-entered the block flats, and in the door gave our guide his share. He had a bit much, and my mates began to vigorously argue for some back. He instead smoked the whole lot at one go, told us to "fuck-off and die" and scurried off.

I was genuinely convinced I was going to die at that point, as we were trapped inside a dirty stairwell with a group of 15 addicts showing up at any moment (we could hear them outside). We discussed our options and decided to take our chances outside, where at least we could run, if need be.

Fortunately, right outside in the street, a taxi driver was procuring his own supply of speedball. We jumped in the back of the taxi and ordered him to take us back to the square. My other mates were long gone, so I went with them to their house. With so much adrenaline still in my system, and so happy to be alive, I joined them in their little party. But I still insisted on free pints all that night--and the next.

They did so without any hesitation. Fair enough, I say.