AQA GCSE English Language 8700/1 - Explorations in creative ...

Mark Scheme

Introduction

The information provided for each question is intended to be a guide to the kind of answers anticipated and is neither exhaustive nor prescriptive. All appropriate responses should be given credit.

Level of response marking instructions

Level of response mark schemes are broken down into four levels (where appropriate). Read through the student's answer and annotate it (as instructed) to show the qualities that are being looked for. You can then award a mark.

You should refer to the standardising material throughout your marking. The Indicative Standard is not intended to be a model answer nor a complete response, and it does not exemplify required content. It is an indication of the quality of response that is typical for each level and shows progression from Level 1 to 4.

Step 1 Determine a level

Start at the lowest level of the mark scheme and use it as a ladder to see whether the answer meets the descriptors for that level. If it meets the lowest level then go to the next one and decide if it meets this level, and so on, until you have a match between the level descriptor and the answer. With practice and familiarity you will be able to quickly skip through the lower levels for better answers. The Indicative Standard column in the mark scheme will help you determine the correct level.

Step 2 Determine a mark

Once you have assigned a level you need to decide on the mark. Balance the range of skills achieved; allow strong performance in some aspects to compensate for others only partially fulfilled. Refer to the standardising scripts to compare standards and allocate a mark accordingly. Re-read as needed to assure yourself that the level and mark are appropriate. An answer which contains nothing of relevance must be awarded no marks.

Advice for Examiners

In fairness to students, all examiners must use the same marking methods.

1. Refer constantly to the mark scheme and standardising scripts throughout the marking period.
2. Always credit accurate, relevant and appropriate responses that are not necessarily covered by the mark scheme or the standardising scripts.
3. Use the full range of marks. Do not hesitate to give full marks if the response merits it.
4. Remember the key to accurate and fair marking is consistency.
5. If you have any doubt about how to allocate marks to a response, consult your Team Leader.

SECTION A: READING - Assessment Objectives

AO1

• Identify and interpret explicit and implicit information and ideas.
• Select and synthesise evidence from different texts.

AO2

• Explain, comment on and analyse how writers use language and structure to achieve effects and influence readers, using relevant subject terminology to support their views.

AO3

• Compare writers' ideas and perspectives, as well as how these are conveyed, across two or more texts.

AO4

• Evaluate texts critically and support this with appropriate textual references.

SECTION B: WRITING - Assessment Objectives

AO5 (Writing: Content and Organisation)

• Communicate clearly, effectively and imaginatively, selecting and adapting tone, style and register for different forms, purposes and audiences.
• Organise information and ideas, using structural and grammatical features to support coherence and cohesion of texts.

AO6

• Candidates must use a range of vocabulary and sentence structures for clarity, purpose and effect, with accurate spelling and punctuation. (This requirement must constitute 20% of the marks for each specification as a whole).

Answers

Question 1 - Mark Scheme

Read again the first part of the source, from lines 1 to 9. Answer all parts of this question. Choose one answer for each. [4 marks]

Assessment focus (AO1): Identify and interpret explicit and implicit information and ideas. This assesses bullet point 1 (identify and interpret explicit and implicit information and ideas).

• 1.1 Who is named as the author of 'Charles Elwood'?: Mr. Brownson – 1 mark
• 1.2 How does the narrator characterise 'Charles Elwood' overall at this point?: The narrator regards it as logical from beginning to end. – 1 mark
• 1.3 According to the narrator, who is the author of 'Charles Elwood'?: Mr Brownson – 1 mark
• 1.4 Which part of the book contained the portions that were not merely logical?: the initial – 1 mark

Question 2 - Mark Scheme

Look in detail at this extract, from lines 1 to 67 of the source:

1 The ‘Charles Elwood’ of Mr. Brownson, for example, was placed in my hands. I read it with profound attention. Throughout I found it logical, but the portions which were not merely logical were unhappily the initial

6 arguments of the disbelieving hero of the book. In his summing up it seemed evident to me that the reasoner had not even succeeded in convincing himself. His end had

11 plainly forgotten his beginning, like the government of Trinculo. In short, I was not long in perceiving that if man is to be intellectually convinced of his own immortality, he

16 will never be so convinced by the mere abstractions which have been so long the fashion of the moralists of England, of France, and of Germany. Abstractions may amuse and exercise, but take no hold on the

21 mind. Here upon earth, at least, philosophy, I am persuaded, will always in vain call upon us to look upon qualities as things. The will may assent—the soul—the intellect, never. “I repeat, then, that I only half felt, and never

26 intellectually believed. But latterly there has been a certain deepening of the feeling, until it has come so nearly to resemble the acquiescence of reason, that I find it difficult to distinguish between the two. I am

31 enabled, too, plainly to trace this effect to the mesmeric influence. I cannot better explain my meaning than by the hypothesis that the mesmeric exaltation enables

36 me to perceive a train of ratiocination which, in my abnormal existence, convinces, but which, in full accordance with the mesmeric phenomena, does not extend, except through

41 its effect, into my normal condition. In sleep- waking, the reasoning and its conclusion—the cause and its effect—are present together. In my natural state, the cause vanishing, the effect only, and

46 perhaps only partially, remains. “These considerations have led me to think that some good results might ensue from a series of well-directed questions propounded to me while

51 mesmerized. You have often observed the profound self- cognizance evinced by the sleep-waker—the extensive knowledge he displays upon all points relating to the mesmeric condition itself; and from this

56 self- cognizance may be deduced hints for the proper conduct of a catechism.” I consented of course to make this experiment. A few passes threw Mr. Vankirk

61 into the mesmeric sleep. His breathing became immediately more easy, and he seemed to suffer no physical uneasiness. The following conversation then ensued:—V. in the dialogue representing the patient,

66 and P. myself. P. Are you asleep? V. Yes—no; I would rather sleep more soundly. P. [_After a few

How does the writer use language here to present the narrator’s criticism of the book and of abstract reasoning? You could include the writer’s choice of:

• words and phrases
• language features and techniques
• sentence forms.

[8 marks]

Question 2 (AO2) – Language Analysis (8 marks)

Explain, comment on and analyse how writers use language and structure to achieve effects and influence readers, using relevant subject terminology to support their views. This question assesses language (words, phrases, features, techniques, sentence forms).

Level 4 (Perceptive, detailed analysis) – 7–8 marks Shows perceptive and detailed understanding of language: analyses effects of choices; selects judicious detail; sophisticated and accurate terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 4 response would analyse how evaluative lexis and figurative ridicule discredit abstraction: the narrator dismisses Brownson as 'merely' logical, notes the reasoner 'had not even succeeded in convincing himself', and uses the allusive simile 'like the government of Trinculo', while the antithesis 'may amuse and exercise, but take no hold' frames abstraction as impotent. It would also explore sentence craft and modality—the personified 'philosophy... call upon us' that 'will always in vain', the dash-driven tricolon 'The will may assent—the soul—the intellect, never', and the juxtaposition 'only half felt... never intellectually believed' with the mesmeric register ('mesmeric exaltation', 'train of ratiocination')—to argue only altered perception convinces, ironising pure logic.

The writer uses pejorative lexis and satirical allusion to dismiss the book’s reasoning. The italicised modifier “merely” in “merely logical” pointedly belittles logic, suggesting insufficiency rather than rigour, while the epithet “disbelieving hero” ironises the novel’s stance. Legal metaphor in “summing up” frames the argument as a failed case, and the intensifier “not even” in “had not even succeeded in convincing himself” undercuts its credibility. Personifying the argument—“His end had plainly forgotten his beginning”—and the scornful simile/allusion “like the government of Trinculo” ridicule its incoherence, inviting the reader to see Brownson’s structure as both inconsistent and laughable.

Moreover, the narrator’s attack on abstraction relies on antithesis, tricolon and assertive modality. The sweeping claim that man will “never be…convinced by the mere abstractions…of England, of France, and of Germany” uses a triadic, anaphoric list to condemn a whole fashionable tradition; “fashion” connotes superficial trendiness. The balanced clause “Abstractions may amuse and exercise, but take no hold on the mind” opposes fleeting stimulation to true purchase. Philosophy is personified—“call upon us to look upon qualities as things”—to expose its perverse reification. The asyndetic, dash-punctuated tricolon “The will may assent—the soul—the intellect, never” builds to the emphatic negation “never,” while “will always in vain” employs absolute modality to assert futility.

Additionally, specialist lexis lends authority to an experiential alternative: “hypothesis,” “mesmeric exaltation,” and “train of ratiocination.” Parallelism—“the reasoning and its conclusion—the cause and its effect”—and the italicised “effect” privilege outcome over abstract “cause,” and the dash-fractured syntax mirrors his claim that pure ratiocination cannot “take hold” in normal consciousness. Together, these choices present a sustained, sophisticated critique of the book and of abstract reasoning.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Shows clear understanding; explains effects; relevant detail; clear and accurate terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 3 response would clearly explain how evaluative contrast and a mocking simile present criticism of the book—he calls it logical but merely logical, says the reasoner had not even succeeded in convincing himself, and that His end had plainly forgotten his beginning, like the government of Trinculo, exposing self-contradiction. It would also show how abstract reasoning is attacked through antithesis, dash-separated tricolon and dismissive lexis: Abstractions may amuse and exercise, but take no hold on the mind diminishes impact, in vain and never stress futility, and The will may assent—the soul—the intellect, never, alongside look upon qualities as things, suggests feeling may comply while intellect refuses.

The writer uses evaluative and mocking language to attack the book. The intensifier “merely” in “merely logical” belittles its arguments, while “unhappily” signals disapproval. Moreover, the simile and allusion “like the government of Trinculo” mock its structure: “His end had plainly forgotten his beginning,” so the “reasoner” seems unable to “convincing himself.”

Furthermore, abstract reasoning is dismissed through antithesis and personification. The balanced clause “Abstractions may amuse and exercise, but take no hold on the mind” contrasts shallow stimulation with lasting conviction, and “philosophy… will always in vain call upon us” stresses futility. Absolute negatives—“never,” “always in vain”—and the parallel tricolon “The will may assent—the soul—the intellect, never” give rhetorical certainty, while calling abstractions “so long the fashion” trivialises them as a fad.

Additionally, technical lexis and emphasis shift value to results: “train of ratiocination” and the italicised “effect” prioritise what can be felt. The short declarative “I read it with profound attention” builds credibility, and the immediate outcome—“His breathing became immediately more easy”—contrasts with airy theory, reinforcing his scepticism about abstractions.

Level 2 (Some understanding and comment) – 3–4 marks Attempts to comment on effects; some appropriate detail; some use of terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer uses contrast and negative language to criticise abstract reasoning, calling the book "logical" but saying "abstractions... take no hold on the mind", and the simile "like the government of Trinculo" shows the argument forgets its start. Simple features like repetition and listing—"I repeat", "of England, of France, and of Germany"—plus the dashes in "The will may assent—the soul—the intellect, never" and the signpost "In short" emphasise that such philosophy is widespread but "in vain".

The writer uses evaluative words and a simile to criticise the book. He calls it “logical,” but “merely logical,” and says the “reasoner had not even succeeded in convincing himself.” The simile “his end had…forgotten his beginning, like the government of Trinculo” suggests confusion and incompetence, making the reader doubt the argument.

Moreover, personification and metaphor attack abstract reasoning: “Abstractions may amuse and exercise, but take no hold on the mind.” The phrase “in vain” about philosophy stresses its uselessness. The contrast in “The will may assent—the soul—the intellect, never” and the list of three emphasise a firm rejection.

Additionally, the shift to “feeling” and mesmeric “effect” presents lived experience as stronger than theory. Technical lexis like “ratiocination” sounds precise, but short signposting (“In short”) adds force. Overall, the language presents the narrator’s distrust of abstractions and the book’s weak logic.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple comment; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 1 response might notice negative words like “unhappily” and “in vain”, and the statement “Abstractions may amuse and exercise, but take no hold on the mind” to show simple criticism of abstract reasoning. It may also spot a simile “like the government of Trinculo” and contrast in “The will may assent—the soul—the intellect, never” to suggest the book’s logic is unconvincing.

The writer uses a simile, “like the government of Trinculo,” to show the book “forgot” its beginning, which makes the reasoning seem confused and weak. Moreover, the phrase “merely logical” and “had not…convincing himself” suggest the hero’s arguments don’t work, so the narrator criticises the book. Additionally, personification in “Abstractions may amuse and exercise” and “take no hold on the mind” shows abstract reasoning is useless. Furthermore, the short, balanced clause “The will may assent—the soul—the intellect, never” uses contrast and a list to emphasise that pure philosophy “in vain” convinces no one.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

AO2 content may include the effects of language features such as:

• Minimising qualifier positions the book’s reasoning as arid and reductive, setting up criticism of its substance (merely logical)
• Evaluative phrasing undermines the author’s credibility by implying self-doubt within the argument (convincing himself)
• Structural contrast of outcome versus premise highlights incoherence in the book’s reasoning (forgotten his beginning)
• Literary allusion/simile ridicules the argument through a mocking comparison, intensifying the dismissal (government of Trinculo)
• Absolutist modal and dismissive label present abstract reasoning as inherently ineffective at proving immortality (mere abstractions)
• Balanced antithesis shows abstractions entertain without lasting persuasion, stressing superficial impact (take no hold)
• Personification and reification critique philosophy’s attempt to force theory into reality, suggesting category error (qualities as things)
• Tricolon with dashes builds to emphatic negation, showing core faculties refuse abstract proofs (the intellect, never)
• Scientific register and cause–effect pairing propose an evidence-based alternative, devaluing detached speculation (cause and its effect)
• Structural shift to dialogue and direct interrogatives foregrounds practical testing over abstraction (Are you asleep?)

Question 3 - Mark Scheme

You now need to think about the structure of the source as a whole. This text is from the start of a story.

How has the writer structured the text to create a sense of curiosity?

You could write about:

• how curiosity intensifies throughout the source
• how the writer uses structure to create an effect
• the writer's use of any other structural features, such as changes in mood, tone or perspective. [8 marks]

Question 3 (AO2) – Structural Analysis (8 marks)

Assesses structure (pivotal point, juxtaposition, flashback, focus shifts, mood/tone, contrast, narrative pace, etc.).

Level 4 (Perceptive, detailed analysis) – 7–8 marks Analyses effects of structural choices; judicious examples; sophisticated terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 4 response would trace a staged narrowing of focus: from essayistic critique of 'Abstractions' and paradox ('His end had plainly forgotten his beginning') to a confessional pivot ('I repeat', 'I only half felt', 'latterly there has been a certain deepening') and a speculative 'hypothesis' about the 'mesmeric' that withholds causation—'the cause vanishing, the effect only'—to kindle questions. It then pinpoints the abrupt shift into transcript—'The following conversation then ensued', 'Are you asleep?' 'Yes—no'—whose clipped Q&A pacing and the broken stage direction '[After a few' defer revelation, intensifying curiosity about what the experiment will expose.

One way in which the writer structures curiosity is by moving from abstract exposition to a concrete mystery. Opening with an analepsis—“The ‘Charles Elwood’… was placed in my hands”—the narrator rehearses how “abstractions… take no hold on the mind,” seeding the question of what might persuade. Temporal markers, “latterly there has been a certain deepening,” and the metadiscursive “I repeat, then” signal development. Crucially, the cause is withheld until the pivot to “the mesmeric influence,” so the reader’s interest shifts from theory to an as-yet-undefined mechanism.

In addition, a decisive shift in narrative mode intensifies curiosity by promising imminent revelation. The reflective monologue becomes procedural, proposing “a series of well-directed questions” and a “catechism,” a quasi-scientific frame that foreshadows answers. Temporal compression—“A few passes threw Mr. Vankirk into the mesmeric sleep”—accelerates pace, telescoping set-up into trial. The typographical switch to dialogue—“The following conversation then ensued:—V. … and P. myself”—creates a transcript effect. The opening exchange—“Are you asleep?” “Yes—no”—uses paradox and the em-dash to suspend certainty, sharpening the urge to read on.

A further structural feature is the sustained first-person frame, which focalises shifts in mood and argument through one consciousness. Refrains of causality—“the cause and its effect—are present together”—establish a logic the coming Q&A will test, a proleptic promise that withholds payoff. By breaking at the threshold of the catechism, the writer engineers a cliff-hanger: pace quickens, form changes, but the central enigma—what mesmerism will reveal—remains deferred. Thus structure arcs from thesis to experiment to interruption, cumulatively heightening curiosity.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Explains effects; relevant examples; clear terminology. Indicative Standard: Curiosity is built by a clear progression: the narrator moves from reflective signposting — "In short", "I was not long in perceiving", "I repeat", "latterly" — to the intriguing promise of action via "mesmeric influence" and a planned experiment ("These considerations have led me", "I consented"), making the reader anticipate answers. This then shifts into immediate dialogue — "The following conversation then ensued" — where the ambiguous exchange "Are you asleep?" / "Yes—no" and contrasts between "In sleep-waking" and "In my natural state" withhold clarity, intensifying curiosity about what the catechism will reveal.

One way in which the writer has structured the opening to create curiosity is by beginning with exposition foregrounding abstract argument while withholding narrative context. The sustained first‑person voice catalogues doubts about immortality—“I repeat… I only half felt”—and discourse markers like “In short” organise reasoning. This slow, reasoned pace delays action, prompting the reader to ask who the speaker is and what has provoked this confession.

In addition, the writer engineers a shift in focus from theory to experiment through temporal and causal sequencing. Adverbs such as “latterly” and frames like “In sleep‑waking… In my natural state…” map time and contrast states, while the connector “These considerations have led me…” ushers in immediate action: “A few passes threw Mr. Vankirk into the mesmeric sleep.” This pivot towards “mesmeric” testing heightens curiosity by promising imminent answers.

A further structural feature is the change in form and pace when the narrative breaks into dialogue. The signpost “The following conversation then ensued” ushers in Q&A: “P. Are you asleep?”—“Yes—no”. This transcript accelerates pace and narrows focus, but it stops at the threshold of revelation with the truncated stage direction “P. [After a few…”. Such deliberate withholding and a cliffhanger sustain the reader’s curiosity.

Level 2 (Some understanding and comment) – 3–4 marks Attempts to comment; some examples; some terminology. Indicative Standard: A typical Level 2 response might say the writer starts with reflective thinking—“I read it with profound attention”, “I only half felt”—then shifts into action with the “mesmeric influence” and “the following conversation then ensued,” which makes us curious to see what will happen. It would also spot the new dialogue layout “P./V.” and the cut-off “After a few,” which withholds answers and encourages the reader to read on.

One way the writer structures the opening to create curiosity is by beginning with a reflective first-person voice focused on thought, not action. Statements like “I only half felt” and “never intellectually believed” set up a problem, so at the beginning we wonder what could change his mind.

In addition, there is a clear time shift and change of focus in the middle. The temporal marker “latterly” and “These considerations have led me” move from abstract ideas to the mesmeric plan, which intensifies curiosity because we expect a test to prove or explain his belief.

A further structural device is the change in pace and form at the end. Short, concrete sentences—“A few passes threw Mr. Vankirk into the mesmeric sleep”—lead into dialogue labelled “P.” and “V.” with the question “Are you asleep?” This switch to dialogue speeds up and makes us eager for answers.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer begins with the narrator’s uncertainty, like "I only half felt", then introduces the mysterious "mesmeric influence" and finally starts a dialogue ("the following conversation then ensued", "Are you asleep? Yes—no"), which makes the reader curious to find out what will happen and what he will say next.

One way the writer structures curiosity is by starting with a slow, reflective opening. The first-person voice talks about belief, e.g. 'I only half felt', which is unclear and makes us wonder what he means.

In addition, there is a clear shift in focus from ideas to action. It moves from 'mesmeric influence' to a plan for 'questions', which builds curiosity about the experiment.

A further structural feature is ending with dialogue. The initials 'P' and 'V' and short lines like 'Are you asleep?' create a simple cliff-hanger, so we want to read on.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

AO2 content may include the effect of structural features such as:

• Intertextual, analytical opening instead of immediate scene → unexpected start invites questions about the narrator’s purpose and stakes → (profound attention)
• Shift from universal claims about conviction to personal confession → narrowing focus makes us wonder what changed him → (I only half felt)
• Problem-setting through critique of failed reasoning → reader anticipates the alternative that might convince → (forgotten his beginning)
• Clear pivot naming the new force driving inquiry → signposted turn heightens anticipation of where it leads → (mesmeric influence)
• Withholding via sleep-waking vs. normal-state contrast → hidden ‘cause’ promises revelations only trance can access → (the effect only)
• Structural signpost of method (a planned catechism) → explicit roadmap builds forward momentum and curiosity about answers → (well-directed questions)
• Transition from exposition to enactment (the induction) → quicker pace grounds theory in action, sharpening interest → (A few passes)
• Formal shift to transcript with roles → Q&A format cues staged, incremental disclosure → (conversation then ensued)
• Opening exchange delivers paradox and uncertainty → immediate ambiguity deepens curiosity about the state achieved → (Yes—no)
• Mid-line truncation of the next step → deliberate withholding creates a mini-cliffhanger → (After a few)

Question 4 - Mark Scheme

For this question focus on the second part of the source, from line 56 to the end.

In this part of the source, where Vankirk gives the strange answer 'Yes—no' to being asleep, it could be seen as a sign that the experiment is not working. The writer suggests that this strange answer actually proves the trance is real, as it's not like normal sleep at all.

To what extent do you agree and/or disagree with this statement?

In your response, you could:

• consider your impressions of Vankirk's strange answer 'Yes—no'
• comment on the methods the writer uses to portray the experiment's strange effects
• support your response with references to the text. [20 marks]

Question 4 (AO4) – Critical Evaluation (20 marks)

Evaluate texts critically and support with appropriate textual references.

Level 4 (Perceptive, detailed evaluation) – 16–20 marks Perceptive ideas; perceptive methods; critical detail on impact; judicious detail. Indicative Standard: A Level 4 response would argue that the paradoxical "Yes—no" and wish to "sleep more soundly" suggest a liminal state that substantiates the writer’s claim this is "the mesmeric sleep" rather than ordinary slumber, corroborated by physiological cues like "His breathing became immediately more easy". It would also evaluate the writer’s viewpoint by questioning how the controlled procedure ("A few passes" and the catechism-like Q&A of "Are you asleep?") might shape the outcome, so the oddity reads both as evidence and as an artefact of method.

I largely agree with the statement. Although Vankirk’s paradoxical ‘Yes—no’ could initially be read as evidence that the mesmeric trial is failing, the writer’s careful framing and methodical dialogue encourage us to see it as proof of a distinct, liminal state that is unlike ordinary sleep.

From the outset of this section, the narrator establishes a clinical, controlled context. The promise that ‘self-cognizance may be deduced hints for the proper conduct of a catechism’ foregrounds a structured, catechetical interrogation, and the swift transition to procedure—‘A few passes threw Mr. Vankirk into the mesmeric sleep’—suggests efficacy. The verb ‘threw’ conveys sudden, decisive alteration, while ‘immediately’ in ‘his breathing became immediately more easy’ provides an objective-seeming physiological marker. This medicalised register, reinforced by ‘no physical uneasiness’, primes the reader to accept the trance as real before the dialogue even begins.

Against that backdrop, the interrogative ‘Are you asleep?’ and the response ‘Yes—no; I would rather sleep more soundly’ function as an illuminating adjacency pair. The dash in ‘Yes—no’ is not mere hesitation: it inscribes antithesis on the line, encoding Vankirk’s liminality. The semicolon extends, rather than retracts, the claim: ‘I would rather sleep more soundly’ uses a comparative to imply partial attainment. He is in a mesmeric state that shares properties with sleep but is not identical to it. Crucially, a normally sleeping subject cannot formulate such a nuanced reply; the writer exploits this paradox to differentiate ‘mesmeric sleep’ from ordinary unconsciousness, so the very strangeness of the answer becomes corroborative.

Form and structure also strengthen this reading. The dialogue is presented with the rigor of a transcript—‘V.’ and ‘P.’—which lends pseudo-scientific authority. The parenthetical stage direction ‘[After a few…]’ indicates iterative adjustment, a procedural deepening that implies the operator can modulate the state. This progression suggests that the oddity of ‘Yes—no’ marks a transitional plateau rather than a breakdown. Even the qualifying verb ‘seemed’ in ‘he seemed to suffer no physical uneasiness’ introduces a flicker of doubt, but that hesitation is outweighed by the accumulating, specific detail and the controlled catechism.

Admittedly, a skeptic could take the contradiction in ‘Yes—no’ as confusion, especially given the narrator’s occasional hedging. Yet the writer’s choices—lexical modification in ‘mesmeric sleep’, physiological evidence, punctuational paradox, and procedural structure—steer us to interpret the contradiction as characteristic of a trance distinct from sleep.

Overall, then, I agree that the ‘Yes—no’ does not undermine the experiment; paradoxically, it authenticates it, signalling a conscious-yet-altered state that proves the trance is real precisely because it is not like normal sleep at all.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant evaluation) – 11–15 marks Clear ideas; clear methods; clear evaluation of impact; relevant references. Indicative Standard: A typical Level 3 response would partially agree, explaining that the paradoxical 'Yes—no' and 'I would rather sleep more soundly' suggest a liminal state that supports the writer’s claim the trance is real and unlike normal sleep—a 'mesmeric sleep' evidenced by 'breathing became immediately more easy' and 'no physical uneasiness' in the staged Q&A—while also noting that such contradiction could imply the experiment isn’t fully reliable even if 'A few passes' seem to induce it.

I largely agree with the statement that Vankirk’s “Yes—no” supports the reality of a mesmeric trance rather than showing failure. From the outset, the writer frames the scene in quasi-scientific terms: he hopes that from “self-cognizance may be deduced hints for the proper conduct of a catechism.” This lexis of experiment and “catechism” sets up a controlled, question-and-answer structure, encouraging us to read the dialogue as data, not confusion.

The immediate physical changes authenticate the trance. The decisive verb choice in “A few passes threw Mr. Vankirk into the mesmeric sleep” and the adverb “immediately” in “His breathing became immediately more easy” create a clear cause-and-effect. The reassurance that he “seemed to suffer no physical uneasiness” foregrounds observable, bodily evidence, which suggests efficacy rather than breakdown.

Within the dialogue form, the strange answer “Yes—no; I would rather sleep more soundly” functions as a deliberate paradox. The dash punctuates a liminal state between wakefulness and sleep, implying a consciousness distinct from “normal sleep.” The modal phrase “I would rather” indicates volition and graded depth, as if the trance has begun but can be intensified. That he can converse at all when asked “Are you asleep?” further implies this is not ordinary slumber but a mesmeric condition with split awareness.

Structurally, the initials “V.” and “P.” and the bracketed aside “[After a few—]” give the exchange a transcript-like, procedural quality. These presentational features reinforce the methodical deepening of the state, shaping our evaluation toward credibility. Admittedly, one could argue the ambiguity of “Yes—no” hints at uncertainty. However, the writer anticipates this by embedding it within a controlled “catechism,” so the contradiction reads as evidence of a unique, intermediate consciousness.

Overall, I agree to a large extent: the writer’s blend of clinical detail, paradoxical dialogue, and procedural structure persuades us that the trance is real precisely because it is unlike normal sleep.

Level 2 (Some evaluation) – 6–10 marks Some understanding; some methods; some evaluative comments; some references. Indicative Standard: A Level 2 response will notice the contradiction in Yes—no and suggest this could mean the experiment isn’t working, but also partly agree with the writer because details like the mesmeric sleep and His breathing became immediately more easy make it seem unlike normal sleep. It may briefly mention the use of conversation and A few passes to show the strange effects, offering simple explanation with limited evaluation.

I mostly agree that Vankirk’s odd reply supports the trance rather than undermines it. The writer first sets up the experiment as successful: after “a few passes” he enters “the mesmeric sleep.” The adverb “immediately” in “his breathing became immediately more easy” suggests quick, definite effects, and the detail “no physical uneasiness” reassures the reader. Structurally, the line “The following conversation then ensued” introduces a transcript, which makes the scene feel clinical and controlled, like a real test.

When P. asks, “Are you asleep?”, Vankirk answers, “Yes—no; I would rather sleep more soundly.” The dash creates a pause and the contrast between “Yes” and “no” shows a mixed state. This could imply the experiment is not perfect, because he admits he wants “more” sleep, so he isn’t fully under. However, the dialogue itself is evidence that this is not “normal sleep at all”: he can speak while asleep, which proves a mesmeric trance. The semi-colon after “Yes—no” links his contradiction to a calm explanation, making it sound thoughtful, not confused. Also, the formal labels “V.” and “P.” give the exchange a scientific tone, which persuades us the process is genuine rather than fake.

Overall, I agree to a large extent. While the phrase hints at some uncertainty, the writer’s language and structure present the “Yes—no” as a sign of a different, conscious sleep, so it supports the idea that the trance is real and unlike ordinary sleep.

Level 1 (Simple, limited) – 1–5 marks Simple ideas; limited methods; simple evaluation; simple references. Indicative Standard: A Level 1 response would simply agree with the writer’s view, saying the odd reply 'Yes—no; I would rather sleep more soundly' shows the trance is real, and might briefly cite 'mesmeric sleep' and 'breathing became immediately more easy' as basic evidence. It may also notice the simple Q&A method with 'Are you asleep?' but offer little explanation.

I mostly agree with the statement. At first, the writer shows the experiment having an effect: “a few passes threw Mr. Vankirk into the mesmeric sleep,” and his “breathing became immediately more easy,” with “no physical uneasiness.” This simple description and the word “immediately” make it seem like it is working and that this is calm, not like ordinary sleep. Then the clear dialogue layout, with “P.” and “V.,” feels like a test. When P asks, “Are you asleep?” Vankirk answers, “Yes—no; I would rather sleep more soundly.” The strange dash in “Yes—no” looks confusing, so it could show the experiment isn’t perfect, because he can’t give a straight answer. But the next words, “I would rather sleep more soundly,” suggest he is in a light trance and wants to go deeper. The writer’s word choice “mesmeric sleep” also tells us it is a different kind of sleep. Overall, I agree that the odd answer helps to prove the trance is real and unusual, though it can also look like it is not working properly at that moment.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward. Note: Reference to methods and explicit “I agree/I disagree” may be implicit and still credited according to quality.

AO4 content may include the evaluation of ideas and methods such as:

• Paradox in Vankirk’s reply implies divided consciousness rather than failure, making the trance seem unlike ordinary sleep (Yes—no)
• Liminal label signals a hybrid state distinct from normal sleep, supporting the claim that the trance is real (sleep- waking)
• Metacommentary on the subject’s insight lends authority to the condition, increasing trust in the experiment’s outcomes (self- cognizance)
• Causal pairing and balance persuade that this state uniquely unites process and result, unlike waking life (cause and its effect)
• Explanation that only the result lingers after the cause fades accounts for ambiguity, reframing the contradiction as a trance effect (effect only)
• Physiological change provides observable evidence the state is genuine, not botched or merely verbal (immediately more easy)
• Procedural, methodical framing presents the exchange as controlled inquiry rather than confusion, bolstering credibility (well-directed questions)
• Hedging in the reply can suggest incomplete induction, giving grounds to doubt the experiment’s full success (rather sleep more soundly)
• Elevated technical lexis intellectualises the experience, persuading that the trance enhances cognition beyond normal sleep (mesmeric exaltation)
• Shift from scepticism to near-reasoned assent creates a balanced, convincing tone that supports the writer’s interpretation (acquiescence of reason)

Question 5 - Mark Scheme

Your college literary circle is running a termly showcase and your piece will be read by students from across the year groups.

Choose one of the options below for your entry.

• Option A: Write a description of a flooded underpass from your imagination. You may choose to use the picture provided for ideas:

• Option B: Write the opening of a story about a promise kept against the odds.

(24 marks for content and organisation, 16 marks for technical accuracy) [40 marks]

(24 marks for content and organisation • 16 marks for technical accuracy) [40 marks]

Question 5 (AO5) – Content & Organisation (24 marks)

Communicate clearly, effectively and imaginatively; organise information and ideas to support coherence and cohesion. Levels and typical features follow AQA’s SAMs grid for descriptive/narrative writing. Use the Level 4 → Level 1 descriptors for content and organisation, distinguishing Upper/Lower bands within Levels 4–3–2.

• Level 4 (19–24 marks) Upper 22–24: Convincing and compelling; assured register; extensive and ambitious vocabulary; varied and inventive structure; compelling ideas; fluent paragraphing with seamless discourse markers.

Lower 19–21: Convincing; extensive vocabulary; varied and effective structure; highly engaging with developed complex ideas; consistently coherent paragraphs.

• Level 3 (13–18 marks) Upper 16–18: Consistently clear; register matched; increasingly sophisticated vocabulary and phrasing; effective structural features; engaging, clear connected ideas; coherent paragraphs with integrated markers.

Lower 13–15: Generally clear; vocabulary chosen for effect; usually effective structure; engaging with connected ideas; usually coherent paragraphs.

• Level 2 (7–12 marks) Upper 10–12: Some sustained success; some sustained matching of register/purpose; conscious vocabulary; some devices; some structural features; increasing variety of linked ideas; some paragraphs and markers.

Lower 7–9: Some success; attempts to match register/purpose; attempts to vary vocabulary; attempts structural features; some linked ideas; attempts at paragraphing with markers.

• Level 1 (1–6 marks) Upper 4–6: Simple communication; simple awareness of register/purpose; simple vocabulary/devices; evidence of simple structural features; one or two relevant ideas; random paragraphing.

Lower 1–3: Limited communication; occasional sense of audience/purpose; limited or no structural features; one or two unlinked ideas; no paragraphs.

Level 0: Nothing to reward. NB: If a candidate does not directly address the focus of the task, cap AO5 at 12 (top of Level 2).

Question 5 (AO6) – Technical Accuracy (16 marks)

Students must use a range of vocabulary and sentence structures for clarity, purpose and effect, with accurate spelling and punctuation.

• Level 4 (13–16): Consistently secure demarcation; wide range of punctuation with high accuracy; full range of sentence forms; secure Standard English and complex grammar; high accuracy in spelling, including ambitious vocabulary; extensive and ambitious vocabulary.

• Level 3 (9–12): Mostly secure demarcation; range of punctuation mostly successful; variety of sentence forms; mostly appropriate Standard English; generally accurate spelling including complex/irregular words; increasingly sophisticated vocabulary.

• Level 2 (5–8): Mostly secure demarcation (sometimes accurate); some control of punctuation range; attempts variety of sentence forms; some use of Standard English; some accurate spelling of more complex words; varied vocabulary.

• Level 1 (1–4): Occasional demarcation; some evidence of conscious punctuation; simple sentence forms; occasional Standard English; accurate basic spelling; simple vocabulary.

• Level 0: Spelling, punctuation, etc., are sufficiently poor to prevent understanding or meaning.

Model Answers

The following model answers demonstrate both AO5 (Content & Organisation) and AO6 (Technical Accuracy) at each level. Each response shows the expected standard for both assessment objectives.

• Level 4 Upper (22-24 marks for AO5, 13-16 marks for AO6, 35-40 marks total)

Option A:

The underpass remembers the rain. Its low concrete mouth, normally a brisk corridor of hurried footsteps, is now a patient basin, a held breath, a shallow lake inching against the steps. Light comes grudgingly—greenish from the strip lamps—and lies in slicks across the water. The ceiling sweats. Rust freckles the bolts like old constellations; a fine bloom of lime effloresces where damp insists. It smells of iron and pond; of coins left in the fist. Above, tyres hiss and complain; below, the surface barely shivers. Drip—pause—drip—pause—drip: a metronome measuring the city’s forgetfulness.

On the skin of that water, leaves congregate—tea-stained—like a slow flotilla of exhausted moths. An iridescent ribbon of petrol unfurls, malign, turning every ceiling light into a bruised halo. Someone’s paper cup drifts; a plastic bottle circles as if obeying a moon. The graffiti on the wall—an extravagant snarl of colours, a palimpsest—bleeds downwards; the word HOPE smears, letter by letter, into an echo. The handrail vanishes into murk. Up close, the surface is treacherous, holding the image of a world inverted while quietly swallowing it.

Sound behaves strangely here. Traffic above booms like a pulse in the skull; the underpass makes a drum of itself and the water becomes its skin. A cough ricochets; a pigeon’s clatter amplifies; somewhere a shutter slams and returns thinner, more nervous. The fluorescents stutter and blink—on, almost-off, on again—so that time itself seems to strobe. In those instants of half-dark, the place is subterranean, sepulchral; then light returns and the mirrored world trembles back into place. Even the air is viscous with damp, peppered with the metallic tang of rust.

A man steps down, stops, calculates. His foot tests the first gleaming stair and withdraws, darkened up to the laces. He looks along the water’s edge, searching for a narrow promise, a shoal of pavement to save him; there is none. A cyclist rolls up, brakes biting—indecisive. For a breath, the three of us—man, rider, observer—hang at the brink of this flooded sentence, unwilling to wade through its clause. Above, a radio jangles; life continues overhead, unseduced by the slow persuasion of water.

And yet, beneath, the city’s throat holds its sip. It is only rain, we remind ourselves: an inconvenience—an errand deferred. Still, the underpass has been transformed, briefly, into an estuary of lost things: a shopping trolley silted to its hips; a single glove, palm-up, petitioning. When the flood slips away—and it will, reluctant, leaving a tidemark like a vanished watch’s bruise—the concrete will white with salt; HOPE will dry into sharper edges. People will pass, brisk and forgetful; leaves will skitter, papery, unbuoyant again. For now, the place holds its breath, patient as a photograph, waiting for the city to resume.

Option B:

Dawn. Not the honeyed one on postcards; this dawn was bruised: a sky the colour of wet slate, gulls ragging the air, the wind throwing tantrums down the estate. Rain arrived sideways; the streetlights hummed; puddles became audiences that clapped under tyres. Today of all days.

In my palm, the brooch was not jewellery but an instruction: sea-glass smoothed to a teardrop, threaded in tarnished silver. ‘Promise me you’ll give it back to the sea,’ Nana had whispered, the machines in the hospice breathing for her. I had nodded—too fast, too eager to be useful, too young to imagine the weather turning adversary.

Now the buses were on strike; the one driver who dared had lit a cigarette beneath the ‘No Smoking’ sign and shrugged. ‘You won’t make it to the pier,’ he said. I zipped my coat until the teeth bit my chin. I promised. I promised. I promised.

The pavement pitched like deck-planks as the gusts shouldered me; my shoes leaked immediately, my socks blossoming with cold. The city, usually indifferent, seemed to conspire: roadworks appearing where they had not been yesterday; a market stall drifting loose like a broken kite; a siren’s itinerant sob dividing the morning. Concurrently, the river rode its own temper, thick and leaden, pressing at the embankment as if it would climb it.

Before the storm there had been a different kind of noise: Nana’s laugh, a warm clatter of crockery; her stories of the brooch—the boy who’d given her the sliver of glass long before it was a brooch at all, the way the sea gave and took like an old friend. ‘Everything finds its way home,’ she had said, squeezing my hand so hard it hurt (I had loved the hurt; it meant she was still here).

A barricade halted me at the waterfront: yellow plastic, officious, taped up as if the pier were a crime scene. ‘Closed due to high winds,’ someone had scrawled on A4 and stuck on at a diagonal. A security guard in a too-thin jacket shook his head. ‘No access. It’s not safe.’

I saw myself from far away—small, sodden, a ridiculous pilgrim—and stepped closer anyway. ‘It’s a promise,’ I said, ridiculous again, because who are promises to anyone but the person who made them? He studied my face, the brooch on my palm, the tide behaving badly. For one indeterminate second I thought he would march me back. Instead, he lifted the tape; just a little; just enough; a quiet acquiescence that felt like complicity.

The pier’s boards were slick, green with algae; every footstep was a negotiation. I skated, steadied, advanced. Salt crowded my mouth and eyes; my hair whipped my cheeks, the wind intent on rewriting me. Still, I kept going: past the dark kiosk, past the shuttered hatch, to the final iron rail that rattled like teeth.

I cradled the brooch. Metal cold; memory warm. ‘Here,’ I told the sea, ridiculous and reverent at once. ‘I’m keeping my word.’

For a breath, the gale paused—a heartbeat’s reprieve. Then the wave surged—greedy, generous—and my fingers opened without my permission. The brooch vanished; a glint became a thought; the thought slipped into the water’s indifferent pocket.

Behind me, somewhere far inland, the day continued—alarms, kettles, arguments about umbrellas. Ahead, the horizon bared its teeth then softened. The odds had been poor. The promise was kept. And now, with shoes that squelched and hair plastered to my skull, I still had to make it to the church before the first hymn.

• Level 4 Lower (19-21 marks for AO5, 13-16 marks for AO6, 32-37 marks total)

Option A:

The underpass holds its breath. Where there should be a brisk procession of feet and wheels, there is a still, pewter sheet; light skims it in thin, blanching strips from each mouth of the tunnel. The concrete is dark with old damp and fresher rain; the walls are algal in seams, bruised with sprayed names. A ferrous tang rides the air, mixed with oil and leaf-mould: cold, metallic, faintly sweet. Maple leaves revolve as if consulted by a bored current. A bicycle wheel—silt-furred, resigned—leans half-drowned; inside it, water ticks. Overhead, the ceiling drips in patient calculus; droplets form, hesitate, and fall, stippling the flood with tidy, dissolving stars.

Between the drip and the road there is a hush. Above, traffic thrums like a distant engine room; within, the underpass answers with its own metronome: drip... drift... drip. Graffiti loosens in the mirror the water makes; letters strain and slur, fluorescent pink turned to a veil of diluted rose. A shopping trolley tilts on its side—ribbed, defeated—like a stranded insect. The surface pretends to be a mirror; it swallows edges and shows only an edit of sky.

I pause at the lip, trainers haloed with damp grit. Cold climbs my sleeves (the cold is patient). How deep can it be? I lower a stick and watch it go; inches vanish with courteous speed, the brown turning to tea. A plastic bottle bumps the tiles, a boat that has forgotten its harbour. Behind me, someone turns away; voices seem to flatten here, ironed by the low concrete into a thinner register.

A rat stitches itself along the narrow ledge, neat as a signature, and is gone. A single glove floats, palm up; two leaves adhere, a soft coronet for something that once held a hand. At the far end the light is a coin that shivers when a gust noses in. A drain mutters and gives up; the plug of silt refuses, stubborn as an old habit. The tunnel feels like a throat that won’t clear, like a sentence held too long behind the teeth.

Rain begins again—tentative, precise. Concentric rings chase and cancel one another; the space turns musical, low and wet. I step back. Eventually, the water will withdraw, leaving a line on the pillars, a stripe of mica-like grit, a faint tide-mark for passers-by. For now it is a held breath, a stubborn mirror, a pause in the route where we are obliged—briefly—to look down and see ourselves.

Option B:

The sea kept its own counsel; the wind spoke in a language of knives. Spray blew sideways across the dilapidated pier, drumming on rusted rails and tapping at the boarded kiosks like impatient fingers. Night had gathered early, thick and salt-stung, and the lamps along the promenade were a row of weak moons trying to be brave.

Arthur stood where the tarmac became timber, one hand on the cold iron, the other cradling a tin lantern whose glass was clouded with age. He had said it out loud, once, on a floor of shattered light seventy-odd years ago: I will light it for you, Tom, as long as I can stand.

Beneath a sheet of yellow plastic, a council sign warned: Pier closed—Danger of collapse. Arthur stared at it, then at the horizon where the waves lifted and fell like the backs of dark animals. His knee hurt (the doctor had called it arthritis), and the sensible thing was to turn back, to ring Nora and say, Not this year. But he had promised. He was stubborn; everyone said so.

He pressed his shoulder against the gate; it gave with a sulky groan. Boards flexed under his boots. Each step sent a soft complaint into the ribs of the structure, and salt breathed up through the gaps. He smelt tar and old fish, and the faint, metallic tang that always reminded him of coins and blood.

As he walked, he counted—one, two, three—like he had counted breaths in a hold full of frightened boys. The sea then had been a different creature: hot with fire, shivering with tracer. Tom’s face—freckled, stubborn, ridiculous—rose in the lantern's dull glass. “Promise me,” Tom had said, choking a laugh, “promise you’ll light something bright. I’ll find it.”

A gust careered down the pier and almost pitched him sideways; his cap went skittering, a small black crab. Rain began, fat and sudden, hammering the planks, blurting cold into his collar. The lantern weighed more than it used to, or perhaps he was simply tired, but he held it like a baby, protectively, the way he had held Nora when she grieved.

The pier-head was a dark crucible. Around it the sea battered the piles with tireless fists. He set the lantern on a crate and shielded the gap with his hands. One match hissed out. Another bent, a flag surrendering. The third caught—quivering, determined—while the wind pawed at his knuckles.

He leaned in, breath shallow, heart knocking an old, frantic rhythm. What was an old man doing out here in a storm, lighting a stubborn, small flame? He knew the answer before the wick turned soft and then orange. He had promised. He had promised, and some promises outlive the boys who make them; some are the only map you carry when the world is wild.

• Level 3 Upper (16-18 marks for AO5, 9-12 marks for AO6, 25-30 marks total)

Option A:

At the mouth of the underpass, the afternoon has pooled into water. What should be a walkway is a shallow, uneasy lake; a dark pane shivering whenever a lorry groans overhead. The concrete walls, stained and tired, lean inward as if listening. Cold air leaks out and finds my skin. There is the metallic tang of standing water and the sour breath of damp concrete, a smell that clings, stubborn and old.

Leaves have gathered like bronze coins on a banquet table no one wanted. They spin in small circles, nudged by invisible currents, backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards, until they snag against a drowned step. A plastic bottle turns in a lazy loop; a crisp packet trembles at the margin; a single, pale trainer floats toe-first as if considering the depth. On the surface, a thin skin of oil blooms into iridescent colours—delicate and ugly at once; the rainbow quivers and then settles again. Above, a strip of fluorescent light stutters and hums. Its reflection breaks and stitches together, breaks and stitches, so that the ceiling seems to flicker in the floor.

Further in, sound is amplified. Every drip is a metronome: drip, drip, drip, slow and perfectly spaced. The concrete sweats. Graffiti bleeds down the walls, letters stretched and softened so that the names look like they are drowning. A yellow sign has half-sunk against the handrail—Caution: Flood—to the point where the word itself keeps wavering, Cauti—on, as though the water has taken the middle and is still hungry for the rest.

The water licks at the lowest step, testing it. Railings sit beaded with moisture, cold as coins; the paint has peeled away in blisters, exposing a grey that matches the sky tunnelled above. Detritus maps the edges: a twig snapped clean, a straw, a scratched bus pass, a smear of mud like a fingerprint. It would be shallow there, I think, then deeper, then deeper still, though the surface refuses to confess how quickly it falls away. The air is dense and close; each breath tastes faintly of rust.

Meanwhile, the world outside continues, indifferent: tyres hiss, a siren glitches somewhere far off, a gull cries (though gulls seldom come this far inland). The underpass keeps its own weather. With every passing truck the water shivers again; with every silence it flattens, patient and watchful, holding the day in its dark glass, and waiting for the next drip to mark time.

Option B:

Night. The hour when trains give up, when pavements shine, when promises sound bigger than your own name. Rain slicked the streets into liquid mirrors; red tail-lights smeared like bruises, and the station clock blinked its indifferent minutes.

“I’ll be there,” I’d told Mia, tapping the cardboard fox nose on her mask until she laughed. “Front row. Centre.” She had believed me easily, the way little sisters do. Now the board spat cancelled in hard, lit letters, and the café’s shutter wheezed down like a sigh. 6:18. Her show began at half past. The hall was a twenty-minute walk on a dry day and this was not dry.

A strike had siphoned every bus from our route; taxis hissed past, full and fogged with warm breath; the train line sulked in silence. The city wasn’t cruel on purpose; it just kept moving whether you kept up or not. So I ran. Trainers slapping, socks already squelching, breath tight and tinny in my mouth. Past the canal, which lay like a strip of black glass. Under the rail arch where pigeons rustled and an old poster for fireworks hung in limp, wet rags.

Because in our family, promises were fragile. Dad kept them in his pocket for a while—shiny, easy—then lost them somewhere between Friday and Monday. I had decided, quietly, to keep mine differently: not loud, not dramatic; just done.

The short-cut bridge was sealed with blue tape. Flooded, a handwritten sign said, apologising in damp ink. The long way would add fifteen minutes we didn’t have. I stood there wobbling on the edge of a decision while the rain drilled the back of my neck. How do you keep a promise when everything closes like a fist?

I climbed. Over the low fence, onto the lock gate, arms stretched like a tightrope walker. Wood slick; the canal licking at my trainers. One step, then another—don’t look down—hands scraping, sleeve tearing on a nail. For a second I saw my own reflection, a blurred smudge with stubborn eyes, and I grinned at it like a dare. Then I was across.

6:27.

I ran the last streets, steam rising from my shoulders, the school’s windows glowing like gold squares in the rain. The caretaker frowned at the puddle I dragged in with me; I mouthed sorry, slid into the front row. The curtain shivered. Mia shuffled on, ears slightly crooked. Her eyes flicked through the shadows and found mine.

You came, her smile said.

Of course, mine answered.

A small promise, kept; yet in that moment it felt like the only solid thing in the room. Outside, the rain went on regardless, but it sounded different now—lighter, almost like applause.

• Level 3 Lower (13-15 marks for AO5, 9-12 marks for AO6, 22-27 marks total)

Option A:

The underpass crouches low beneath the road, a concrete mouth filled with dull water. Thin yellow light leaks from the ends, turning the surface into two long mirrors that shiver when traffic grinds overhead. The air is cold with the breath of rain and pipes; the smell is stale, faintly sour, like old coins and wet leaves. Graffiti, once loud, is blurred now, as if the paint has been washed into a bruise. Somewhere a drip counts the seconds: drip, drip, drip.

Detritus drifts and circles: leaves, wrappers, a soggy newspaper that opens and closes as if breathing. Oak leaves lie like drowned hands, their points softened; a plastic bottle bumps the wall with a hollow, patient tap. A film of oil spreads a quiet rainbow that moves whenever the ceiling fans stir the air. At the edges, the concrete is fringed with dark algae and a line of dirt; it shows the height the water has reached and held. Steps that should take you under instead slide straight into greenish depths.

It is not silent. The road above grumbles like a heavy animal; the sound drops into the space and spreads, slow and low. A pigeon claps out and the echo flaps after it. A tired fluorescent strip blinks; each blink lays a pale ladder across the flood, then takes it away. Under the skin of the water, you can see what the place has swallowed—an orange cone, a wheel, a shredded glove.

You stand at the lip where the path should continue and meet yourself in the water, a stretched silhouette. It is strangely beautiful; it is also unfriendly. Above, life rolls on without noticing. Down here, the underpass keeps still, holding its breath, waiting for the next ripple from a lorry to move its small world again.

Option B:

Rain drummed on the estate like the impatient fingers of the sky. Streetlights blinked and shivered. The wind bullied the bins so they hopped and rattled down the road, lids clapping. On my phone, the bus timetable glowed a stubborn, red word: Cancelled. Cancelled. The river had swollen in the night, turning the path to the hospital into a strip of brown muscle, tense and fast. It dragged twigs, a shoe, a floating crisp packet, as if it wanted to keep everything for itself.

I checked the time: 7:03. Visiting began at eight; Dad’s operation was at nine. I had promised. Last night, in the brittle light of the ward, he squeezed my fingers, his smile thin but steady. “Don’t be late,” he said, like it was a joke and an order at once. Mum nodded, trying not to cry. I said I’d be there, I said it twice. I never said anything more true.

I shut the flat door and stepped into the morning like stepping into a cold bath. The rain was needle-sharp, pricking my cheeks. My trainers soaked through at once. The river had climbed its banks, it snarled at the path. A police tape fluttered on the main road and a tired officer shook his head when I got close. “Bridge is closed,” he called, his voice snatched by the wind. “Find another way.”

Another way. The words struck like flint. I cut through the allotments where tall, ghostly canes clacked together and a scarecrow tilted in the gusts. Beyond them, the old footbridge arched over the water, thin as a rib, painted with flaking blue and a warning sign. It trembled under my weight—everything trembled—but it held. My breath clouded; my heart thudded a stubborn drum.

On the far side, the hospital tower showed through the rain, a grey lighthouse. I straightened, wiped my face, and kept moving. I had promised. And promises, even in weather like this, were not things I let go.

• Level 2 Upper (10-12 marks for AO5, 5-8 marks for AO6, 15-20 marks total)

Option A:

Water slumps across the underpass like a tired animal, sloshing softly against graffiti-stained walls. The flourescent strip lights are sullen, flickering; a cold rectangle of daylight at the far mouth quivers in the black mirror on the floor. The tunnel holds its breath, it smells of damp plaster and cold iron. Leaves drift, copper and bruised green, circling a trapped shopping trolley that leans at an angle, a bent rib-cage. Oil blooms into slow rainbows. When a lorry groans overhead the skin of the flood shivers, ripples running out in rings.

At first you notice small things: a plastic bottle nose-bumping the kerb, a tennis ball, a bus ticket turning to mush. Drip, drip, drip from a crack; the ceiling has its own patient metronome. A faded sign says Caution Flooded - the letters waver as if tired of warning. The concrete sweats. Graffiti bleeds down, pink dragged into grey like cheap watercolour. The smell is sour and metallic, like coins kept too long in a fist, and there is an algae taste on the air that clings to the tongue.

Further along, the water deepens; ankles vanish, the cold climbs. I test the edge with my shoe. How deep is it? My reflection wobbles, a warped silhouette in a dull, greenish mirror. A pigeon peers from a pipe, head jerking, as if counting me in. The exit-glow ahead is a pale square, almost near, almost, but the underpass keeps tugging with its slow tide—backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards. Somewhere a siren smears the distance. The tunnel goes on breathing. Drip, drip, drip.

Option B:

Winter. A time of brittle mornings; pavements glazed in thin ice, flakes like ash starting to fall. The town hunched its shoulders, but the alarm on my phone drilled the dark.

I had promised Mum I would be there at sunrise—no maybe, no sorry-if-I’m-late; a real promise. I’d hold her hand before surgery, I said it slowly so it would stick. Last night her voice was a paper voice: “You’ll come, Jade?” “I will.”

Now the first bus was cancelled, the next delayed; the screen blinked like it was laughing. The wind bit my fingers; my lace snapped, my gloves got wet. I walked. Me and the wind argued up the hill—who could push harder. Every step said it back to me: promise, promise. What kind of daughter turns back now?

By the time I reached the hospital the sky was pale. The guard put out a hand. “Visiting starts at eight.” I held up what I had left: a smooth shell from last summer. “Please,” I said, “she’s scared.” He looked at the shell, at my shivering shoulders, and waved me through.

Monitors ticked; the room smelt like metal. Mum’s eyes fluttered. I pressed the shell into her palm. “I told you,” I whispered, “I kept it.” Outside, a thin line of light climbed the window, and, despite everything, morning came.

• Level 2 Lower (7-9 marks for AO5, 5-8 marks for AO6, 12-17 marks total)

Option A:

Cold water sat in the underpass like a shallow lake. The concrete throat was dark, the daylight at the far mouth just a pale square. The ceiling sweated; drip, drip, drip, the sound counted time. The surface looked smooth until a leaf spun, making rings. Graffiti bled into the water; lines bent like they were breathing. It smelt damp, like an old cellar.

Above, traffic rolled over; the noise pressed down in a dull, heavy way. A rainbow film slid over the murky water, a thin skin of oil that shivered when a drop fell. A bottle bobbed by a broken wheel, bumping the side again and again. The light flickered from a tired strip; its reflection trembled. A thin, sour smell—the kind that sticks on your clothes. Rust climbed the railings, and steps on one side disappeared into the dark pool.

At the far end, the exit looked so near, yet far. I watched the ripples move back and forth, backwards and forwards. The place felt patient. The echo of water was the only voice, and the underpass seemed to breathe in and out with it. I took one step, then I stopped, because the cold lapped at my boots and soaked the edge.

Option B:

Rain. It hammered the windows and pasted the sky in dull grey. I pressed Mum’s scarf into my pocket, the red one she called lucky, and I whispered the words: I’ll be there before they wheel you in. I had made a promise. It wasn’t big in the world, but it was huge in me. The storm didn’t care; the clock did. My breath fogged the glass as if the house sighed too, tired and still. I zipped my coat. I stepped out.

At the bus stop the board blinked CANCELLED in orange. There were less buses than gulls. So I dragged my brother’s old bike from the shed; the chain glittered like a wet snake. I pedalled. Two streets later it snapped—an ugly gasp—and I toppled into a puddle that soaked my socks. I checked the time: 8:37. Theatre at nine.

I promised.

I ran. My lungs burned, but I kept going. Cars threw spray at me, the kind that tastes of metal. A sign said BRIDGE CLOSED; the river had eaten the path. For a second I froze. Then I saw the old mill footbridge. Narrow. Cracked. I took it anyway. I would keep my word.

• Level 1 Upper (4-6 marks for AO5, 1-4 marks for AO6, 5-10 marks total)

Option A:

The underpass is like a long throat. Water sits there, brown and cold, it moves a little when a car goes over.

Leaves float in circles alot. They look like tiny boats, but no one is riding them. A yellow cone is half under the water, the word Caution is smudged.

I stand by the step. My shoes already wet. The smell is damp, like old towels, and metal. Drip, drip, drip from the roof.

Light from the other end shakes on the surface, a broken mirror. You can see the wall, but it is not clear, it is wobbly.

It is quiet but noisy, the cars above hum and the water answers, little rings go out and then they go again and again. I think it is deeper than it looks, I am not brave, not today. It is definatly cold and a wierd smell sticks to my coat.

Option B:

Rain. It hit the roof, the road, my face, like stones. The sky was dull and low. The pavement shined. In my pocket was the note where I wrote it, so I dont forget.

I promised Tom I would come. I told him I’d be there by four. The bus didnt come, the road was flooded.

I went anyway.

Shoes soaked. Legs cold. My breath like smoke. The wind pushed at me—like it wanted me to go home. I kept going because I said it, I said I would. My phone was dead; my heart was loud.

It felt far. People looked from warm windows. I should of turned back, but I didn’t. My promise was a small fire. I slipped, I swore, then I laugh, then I ran. I was late I guess. But I was coming.

• Level 1 Lower (1-3 marks for AO5, 1-4 marks for AO6, 2-7 marks total)

Option A:

Dark water fills the underpass like a bowl. It is cold. My steps splash and I stop because it is deep now. Water stains up the walls, the paint is peeling. Leaves float like little boats, bumping together, they go round and round. A trolley is stuck, half under, its wheel clicking, but no one is here. It smells damp and like old socks. The lights is buzzing and make yellow rings on the water. I look down and I was thinking it will go soon. My shoes are wet and I think about my bus. Drip drip drip from the roof.

Option B:

Morning was grey and wet and the road shine like a mirror. I told Mum I will do it. I promised to bring the note to Gran today, I wont be late, I will keep it! The bus was full and slow, my shoes was soaked and my bike chain fell off. I tried to fix it but my hands went numb. I seen the clock and it was almost dark. The shop shut early, I forgot money. My friend shouted about football on Saturday and I waved. The dog chased me down the lane. I kept walking. I keep going because I said I would.