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 What was noted?: the stars – 1 mark
• 1.2 According to the narrator, what would have been madness?: Beginning to prowl in darkness on unfamiliar ground – 1 mark
• 1.3 According to the narrator, why would going out stealthily at this moment have been unwise?: Because it was dark and the ground was unfamiliar. – 1 mark
• 1.4 According to the narrator, why is prowling towards the other bungalow a bad idea?: Because the night was dark and the ground was unfamiliar – 1 mark

Question 2 - Mark Scheme

Look in detail at this extract, from lines 6 to 15 of the source:

6 And for what end? Unless to relieve the oppression. Immobility lay on his limbs like a leaden garment. And yet he was unwilling to give up. He persisted in his objectless vigil. The man of the island was keeping quiet. It was at

11 that moment that Ricardo's eyes caught the vanishing red trail of light made by the cigar--a startling revelation of the man's wakefulness. He could not suppress a low “Hallo!” and began to sidle

How does the writer use language here to show Ricardo’s state of mind and the tense mood? 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 the rhetorical fragment ‘And for what end?’, the incomplete thought ‘Unless to relieve the oppression.’, and the heavy simile ‘Immobility lay on his limbs like a leaden garment’ externalise Ricardo’s anxious paralysis, while the paradoxical ‘objectless vigil’ and short, simple sentences reveal obsessive persistence amid uncertainty. It would also explore how tension is heightened by the ominous stillness of ‘keeping quiet’, the symbolic, fleeting ‘vanishing red trail of light’ punctuated by the dash in ‘--a startling revelation of the man’s wakefulness’ to mark a sudden jolt, and the hushed sibilance and furtive motion in ‘a low "Hallo!"’ and ‘began to sidle’.

The writer uses interrogatives and sentence fragments to place us inside Ricardo’s strained mind: "And for what end? Unless to relieve the oppression." The rhetorical question exposes his uncertainty, while the minor sentence reads like a self-justifying aside. The abstract noun "oppression" crystallises that crushing pressure, creating a claustrophobic mood.

Moreover, the simile "Immobility lay on his limbs like a leaden garment" fuses physical and mental paralysis. Personifying "Immobility" as something that "lay" gives it agency, and "leaden garment" connotes weight and constriction, as if he is wrapped and pinned. The adversative "And yet he was unwilling to give up" signals inner conflict, while the paradoxical noun phrase "objectless vigil" captures stubborn persistence drained of purpose.

Furthermore, the moment of perception is rendered through colour imagery: Ricardo catches "the vanishing red trail of light." "Red" signals danger, while "vanishing" suggests elusiveness, sustaining suspense. The noun "trail" evokes tracking. The phrase "a startling revelation of the man's wakefulness" foregrounds his shock, jolting both Ricardo and reader into heightened tension.

Additionally, sound and movement choices build secrecy. He "could not suppress a low 'Hallo!'"—the verb "suppress" implies strained self-control, and "low" conveys a whisper. The dynamic verb "sidle" denotes furtive, sideways motion, amplifying unease. Sibilance in "suppress... sidle" creates a hissing softness, mirroring stealth. Throughout, clipped declaratives and parataxis pace his thoughts, tightening the mood as the "man... was keeping quiet" in uneasy stalemate.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Shows clear understanding; explains effects; relevant detail; clear and accurate terminology. Indicative Standard: Short, rhetorical sentences like 'And for what end?' and 'Unless to relieve the oppression.' build a tense, oppressive mood, while the simile 'Immobility lay on his limbs like a leaden garment' shows the heavy strain on Ricardo even as he 'persisted in his objectless vigil'. Visual details like the 'vanishing red trail of light' and the dash with 'startling revelation', plus his move to 'sidle', present his jumpy alertness and stealth, hinting at danger.

The writer begins with rhetorical questions, “And for what end? Unless to relieve the oppression,” which reveal Ricardo’s unsettled thoughts and self-doubt. The abstract noun “oppression” suggests a crushing pressure, immediately establishing a tense, stifling mood. Moreover, the personification and simile “Immobility lay on his limbs like a leaden garment” convey fear as a physical weight; “leaden” connotes heaviness and cold, showing how anxiety paralyses him.

Furthermore, the short, simple sentences “And yet he was unwilling to give up. He persisted in his objectless vigil” create a clipped rhythm, mirroring his tight control and stubborn resolve. The noun phrase “objectless vigil” hints at futility and obsession, keeping the tension taut. Similarly, “The man of the island was keeping quiet” uses the continuous verb phrase to sustain an ongoing hush.

Additionally, the colour imagery in “the vanishing red trail of light” signals danger (“red”) and secrecy (“vanishing”), heightening suspense. The dash introduces parenthesis—“a startling revelation”—which mirrors Ricardo’s sudden jolt of shock. The adjective “low” in “a low ‘Hallo!’” with the exclamation mark shows a repressed yet involuntary reaction, while the precise verb “sidle” suggests cautious, stealthy movement. Overall, these choices and clipped sentence forms expose Ricardo’s anxious state of mind and intensify the tense mood.

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 a rhetorical question And for what end? and short, abrupt sentences like And yet he was unwilling to give up. to build tension. The simile like a leaden garment shows heavy pressure, while objectless vigil and the image of the vanishing red trail of light suggest Ricardo is alert but unsure, and the low "Hallo!" plus began to sidle show his cautious, sneaky movement.

The writer uses rhetorical questions to show Ricardo’s anxious state of mind: “And for what end? Unless to relieve the oppression.” The interrogatives suggest uncertainty, while “oppression” creates a heavy, tense mood. Short, simple sentences like “And yet he was unwilling to give up” add urgency.

Moreover, the simile “Immobility lay on his limbs like a leaden garment” shows he feels weighed down and almost trapped, which increases tension. The phrase “objectless vigil” suggests a pointless, restless watch, revealing his frustration.

Furthermore, vivid imagery presents danger: the “vanishing red trail of light” from the cigar hints at secrecy and the other man’s presence. Also, “keeping quiet” emphasises the silence, building suspense. The “startling revelation” shows his shock. Finally, the verb choice “sidle” and the “low ‘Hallo!’” suggest cautious, nervous movement, so the reader senses a tense, watchful atmosphere and Ricardo’s jittery mindset.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple comment; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer uses the simile "like a leaden garment" to show heaviness, and short sentences/rhetorical questions like "And for what end?" and "Unless to relieve the oppression." to create tension and confusion. Words/phrases such as "objectless vigil," "vanishing red trail of light," the "low 'Hallo!'" and the verb "sidle" suggest nervous, sneaky behaviour, adding to the tense mood.

The writer uses a rhetorical question, “And for what end?” to show Ricardo is confused and worried. The simile “like a leaden garment” suggests heaviness on his limbs, showing his mind feels oppressed and tense. Moreover, the phrase “objectless vigil” and the abstract noun “oppression” create a tense mood of waiting. Furthermore, the imagery “vanishing red trail of light” and the adjective “startling” show sudden fear when he sees the man is awake. Additionally, the verb “sidle” and “could not suppress” suggest nervous, sneaky movement, so the mood stays tense.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Rhetorical question opening → exposes Ricardo’s doubt and purposelessness, immediately unsettling the reader (And for what end?)
• Abstract noun of burden → suggests crushing mental pressure he wants to alleviate, heightening internal tension (relieve the oppression)
• Weighty simile → embodies paralysis and anxiety through dense heaviness on his body (like a leaden garment)
• Clipped declaratives → steady, methodical rhythm mirrors strained persistence and keeps the mood taut (He persisted)
• Striking noun phrase → shows aimless watchfulness, making his persistence feel futile and tense (objectless vigil)
• Silence of the other man → secrecy and lack of sound amplify suspense and threat (keeping quiet)
• Visual and colour imagery → fleeting, dangerous clue implies fragility of concealment and spikes alertness (vanishing red trail)
• Dash signalling sudden realisation → punctuates a jolt of shock at the man’s alertness (a startling revelation)
• Hushed exclamation → restrained voice hints at fear and self-control under pressure (a low 'Hallo!')
• Stealthy verb choice → sideways movement connotes caution and anxiety, sustaining the tense mood (began to sidle)

Question 3 - Mark Scheme

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

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

You could write about:

• how ambiguity deepens 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 how ambiguity deepens through structural shifts and undercutting: the opening dense darkness and objectless vigil set uncertainty, the misread vanishing red trail of light is immediately corrected by the omniscient As a matter of fact, and dialogue driven by repeated How do you know? with the ironic little dagger-like flame shows that even “light” fails to clarify. It would also note temporal pivots and withholding—signalled by at that moment and the unresolved shift to changed completely—that move us from Ricardo’s conjecture to narrative correction and back to speculation, sustaining pervasive ambiguity.

One way in which the writer has structured the text to create ambiguity is by opening in medias res with a deictically vague “He” and delaying naming until “Ricardo,” so our orientation is withheld. A suspended, “objectless vigil” is then spiked by a zoom onto the “vanishing red trail of light” — a fleeting sign that could mean many things; even the label “the man of the island” keeps identity diffuse. This structural hinge, coupled with the alternation of stasis and sudden movement, unsettles the reader’s grasp of who is awake, where, and why, so ambiguity accrues from the outset.

In addition, ambiguity is generated by oscillating focalisation. An omniscient intrusion—“As a matter of fact… Heyst had gone indoors”—contradicts Ricardo’s inference, creating dramatic irony; yet we are immediately returned to filtered perception as he “fancied he could hear faint footfalls.” This alternation between authoritative exposition and conjectural free indirect style deprives us of a single stable viewpoint. A brief analepsis (“At first he had thought… till daylight”) reorders time to show decisions built on misread signs, deepening uncertainty about motive and outcome.

A further structural strategy is the pivot from solitary surveillance to dialogue. The scene change—lighting a “little dagger-like flame” and facing Mr Jones—promises clarity, but the interrogative exchanges (“How do you know? … toothache?”; “No, sir.”) proliferate hypotheses and quicken the pace rather than resolve it. Finally, the paragraph closes with narrated withholding—“There was a sort of amused satisfaction… which changed completely as he went on”—a mini cliff-hanger: the tonal shift is announced, not shown. This calculated deferral sustains and intensifies the ambiguity, leaving intentions and the night’s significance unresolved.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Explains effects; relevant examples; clear terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 3 response would identify that ambiguity deepens through structural contrasts and withheld information: Ricardo misreads the vanishing red trail of light as proof Heyst is doing a think, while the narrator reveals Heyst had gone indoors, and Jones’s It might have been anything undermines certainty. It would also note the shift from solitary objectless vigil in dense darkness to candlelit dialogue (light the candle, dagger-like flame, How do you know?) which creates a questioning tone and keeps motives unclear.

One way the writer structures the passage to create ambiguity is through shifting focalisation and juxtaposition. The opening in “dense darkness” and an “objectless vigil” then narrows to the “vanishing red trail of light” from Heyst’s cigar. Ricardo infers wakefulness, but the narrator intrudes, “As a matter of fact… Heyst had gone indoors,” undercutting his reading. This contrast between perception and omniscient correction produces dramatic irony and leaves the reader unsure which impressions to trust.

In addition, a change of setting and pace maintains uncertainty. The narrative moves from the veranda to the interior, where a “dagger-like flame” “does its best to dispel the darkness”. Structurally, the switch to dialogue generates competing interpretations: Mr Jones’s interrogatives (“How do you know?... toothache”) challenge Ricardo’s repeated claim that Heyst was “doing a think”. The alternation of voices and questions sustains an unresolved mood.

A further structural feature is the use of temporal references and withheld resolution. Markers like “At first he had thought” and “Long as they had been together” momentarily shift time to reframe motives and loyalties, complicating our judgement. The section closes on a cliffhanger: “amused satisfaction… changed completely as he went on”, withholding the next revelation and deepening the ambiguity.

Level 2 (Some understanding and comment) – 3–4 marks Attempts to comment; some examples; some terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer creates ambiguity by shifting focus from Ricardo’s "objectless vigil" in the dense darkness to him going in to light the candle, hinging on the vanishing red trail of light and that he only "fancied he could hear faint footfalls", so we can’t tell if his fears are real. The move into dialogue adds doubt, as Mr. Jones’s calm questions like "How do you know?" and dismissal "You are always making a fuss" contrast with Ricardo’s urgency ("no sleep for him that night"), keeping the reader unsure.

One way in which the writer has structured the text to create ambiguity is at the beginning, using darkness and hesitation. The narrator asks, “And for what end?” and shows an “objectless vigil”. These short sentences slow the pace and make us unsure what he will do.

In addition, in the middle there is a shift in focus between Ricardo’s belief and what actually happens. The aside “As a matter of fact… Heyst had gone indoors” is contrasted with “Ricardo fancied he could hear faint footfalls.” This contrast and change in perspective makes the reader question what is true, building uncertainty.

A further structural feature at the end is the move into dialogue. Questions like “How do you know?” and “It might have been anything” keep the doubt going. Lighting the candle seems to promise clarity, but their talk complicates it, and the words “changed completely” leave an unclear tone.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: At first he is in the dense darkness and there's a question And for what end?, with unclear signs like the vanishing red trail of light and faint footfalls. Later, the questions in dialogue like How do you know? and talk of doing a think keep the reader unsure about what's really happening.

One way the writer structures ambiguity is by changing focus. We are with Ricardo in the dark, then “as a matter of fact” jumps to Heyst going inside, before returning to Ricardo. This makes it unclear what is really true.

In addition, time words like “at that moment” and “as a matter of fact” change time and order. The pace gets faster with the cigar and “footfalls,” which adds uncertainty.

A further feature is dialogue and questions. Mr. Jones asks “How do you know?” and we get doubts. Lighting the candle reveals him, but Heyst’s purpose stays hidden, keeping ambiguity.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Opening retreat into darkness delays action, establishing uncertainty about intentions (dense darkness)
• Rhetorical questioning stalls forward movement, foregrounding indecision and unclear motives (And for what end?)
• Withheld/shifted identification—the figure is unnamed then clarified—keeps who is where uncertain (the man of the island)
• Ephemeral visual cue creates unstable “evidence”: a glimpse becomes a misleading certainty (vanishing red trail)
• Auditory ambiguity through hedging suggests possible presence without proof, sustaining tension (fancied he could hear)
• Spatial shift outside to inside and weak illumination offer only partial clarity, leaving much unknown (done its best to dispel)
• Proxemics (Ricardo sits “very close”) plus doubt over Jones’s sleep state sustain unclear alertness and control (perhaps had not been)
• Interrogative exchange tests competing readings of events, multiplying causes and undermining certainty (How do you know?)
• Ending on an interruption and tonal swerve leaves intentions unresolved and the conversation inconclusive (changed completely)

Question 4 - Mark Scheme

For this question focus on the second part of the source, from line 46 to the end.

In this part of the source, the way Ricardo wakes up his boss makes him seem nervous and fussy. The writer suggests that all the real power belongs to Mr. Jones, who is simply lying in bed.

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

In your response, you could:

• consider your impressions of how the hyena behaves
• comment on the methods the writer uses to present the hyena
• 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 largely agree, showing how the writer frames Ricardo as nervy and fussy through dialogue and body language: Mr Jones’s rebuke "Confound your fussiness!", Ricardo’s "tip of his tongue caught between his teeth", and his being "warmly argumentative". It would also analyse how power rests with Mr Jones despite his passivity, using staging and tone: eyes "conveniently levelled" while he merely "raised himself on his elbow", then "interrupted him without heat" in a "tolerant tone", the hierarchy reinforced by "faithful henchman" and "governor".

I largely agree that Ricardo is presented as nervous and fussy, while the real authority rests with Mr. Jones, even as he lies in bed. From the outset, the staging makes Ricardo’s agitation visible: he “plumped himself down cross-legged” “very close” to the “low bedstead,” a cluster of adverbs and participles that suggest hurried, undignified movement and almost childish eagerness. The proxemics matter: Mr. Jones, “on opening his eyes,” finds them “conveniently levelled at the face of his secretary.” That adverb “conveniently” slyly implies that Ricardo positions himself to be noticed, but the convenience ultimately belongs to Mr. Jones, whose languid gaze controls the encounter. His immediate rebuke, “Confound your fussiness!”, labels and diminishes Ricardo’s behaviour from the start.

Ricardo’s speech patterns reinforce this fussy nervousness. His idiomatic exclamatives—“Dash me”—and the comic literalism of “doing a think” betray breathless anxiety and a slightly naive mind at work. He confesses, “I didn’t even try to go to sleep,” a hyperbolic admission that dramatises his fretfulness. By contrast, Mr. Jones’s laconic interrogatives—“How do you know?” and the cool hypothesis “It might have been anything—toothache”—deflate Ricardo’s alarm. The narration underlines Mr. Jones’s composure through tonal markers: he speaks “in a tolerant tone,” and later interrupts “without heat,” so his authority is performed through understatement rather than force. Language becomes his instrument of control.

Structurally, a tiny shift in Mr. Jones’s posture functions as a pivot of power. When he “raised himself on his elbow,” this “sign of interest comforted his faithful henchman.” The noun phrases “faithful henchman,” “patron,” and “governor” build a semantic field of hierarchy and dependency, while “the moods of his governor were still a source of anxiety” shows that Ricardo remains perpetually keyed to his master’s temperament. Even as he grows “warmly argumentative” and defends that his way “isn’t a fool’s way,” his tentative bid for status is capped by the crisp admonitory line, “You haven’t roused me to talk about yourself, I presume?” The syntactic sharpness of that declarative-as-question resets the hierarchy, and the immediate physical detail—“the tip of his tongue caught between his teeth”—visualises Ricardo’s self-silencing.

There is nuance: Ricardo shows initiative—keeping “vigil on the veranda,” insisting “it’s time we did a little think ourselves”—and momentarily gains “more assurance” when Mr. Jones engages. Yet the pattern is unmistakable. Mr. Jones names the terms (“You are always making a fuss”), sets the boundaries, and with minimal movement and measured, sardonic questions governs the scene from bed. Overall, I agree to a large extent: the writer crafts Ricardo’s fussiness through diction, dialogue and staging, while Mr. Jones’s effortless composure embodies the real power.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant evaluation) – 11–15 marks Clear ideas; clear methods; clear evaluation of impact; relevant references. Indicative Standard: A Level 3 response would mostly agree, explaining that Ricardo is shown as nervous and fussy through action and dialogue: Mr. Jones chides him ("Confound your fussiness!", "You are always making a fuss,"), while Ricardo "plumped himself down" "very close to the low bedstead" and even has "the tip of his tongue caught between his teeth." It would also identify that the writer gives quiet power to Mr. Jones, who merely "raised himself on his elbow", speaks in a "tolerant tone" and "interrupted him without heat", though Ricardo’s attempt to take initiative—"Seems to me it's time we did a little think ourselves,"—is undercut by his deference "No, sir" and his role as a "faithful henchman."

I agree to a large extent that Ricardo comes across as nervous and fussy, while Mr. Jones holds the real power even from his bed. From the outset, the writer’s physical staging makes Ricardo seem agitated: he “plumped himself down cross-legged… very close to the low bedstead,” an abrupt verb and intrusive proximity that suggest impatience. The parenthetical aside that Mr. Jones “had not been so very profoundly asleep” undercuts the urgency of Ricardo’s alarm and hints that Jones is in control of the situation anyway.

Dialogue and tone reinforce this contrast. Jones’s first response—“Confound your fussiness!”—labels Ricardo with that evaluative noun, while Jones proceeds with calm interrogatives: “How do you know?” and “It might have been anything—toothache.” His measured questions minimise Ricardo’s fears. By contrast, Ricardo’s colloquial exclamations—“Dash me,” “that there fellow”—and the odd idiom “doing a think” make him sound jumpy and over-eager to interpret events. The repetition of “fuss/fussiness” creates a lexical thread that frames Ricardo as a fusspot.

Narrative commentary also presents Ricardo as anxious. He admits, “I didn’t even try to go to sleep,” and we’re told “the moods of his governor were still a source of anxiety to his simple soul.” That noun phrase “simple soul” is patronising, positioning him as the dependent “henchman” to his “governor” and “patron”—a semantic field of hierarchy that supports the idea of Jones’s power. Even when Ricardo proposes action—“time we did a little think ourselves”—his “assurance” only arrives after Jones “raised himself on his elbow,” a small movement that nevertheless “comforted” him. This tiny gesture functions like a nonverbal signal of authority.

Structurally, Jones controls the exchange: he “interrupted him without heat” and coolly redirects, “You haven’t roused me to talk about yourself,” asserting the agenda. Overall, I agree that Ricardo’s fussy vigilance highlights his insecurity, while Mr. Jones’s composure, interrogative control, and effortless authority from the bed underline where the real power lies, though Ricardo does show brief initiative.

Level 2 (Some evaluation) – 6–10 marks Some understanding; some methods; some evaluative comments; some references. Indicative Standard: At Level 2, a response would mostly agree, pointing out with simple examples that Ricardo seems nervous and fussy through dialogue like "Confound your fussiness!", "You are always making a fuss," and narration showing him as "a source of anxiety." It would also note that Mr. Jones holds the power, since he stays calm with "a tolerant tone," "interrupted him without heat," and merely "raised himself on his elbow" while in bed.

I mostly agree with the statement. Ricardo does seem nervous and fussy as he wakes Mr. Jones, and the writer makes Mr. Jones look calm and in control, even while he is still in bed.

At the start, Ricardo “plumped himself down cross-legged… very close to the low bedstead.” The verb “plumped” and his closeness suggest he is over-eager and anxious. Mr. Jones’s first response, “Confound your fussiness!” and “Why can’t you let me sleep?” shows he is irritated but relaxed, not alarmed. The writer uses dialogue to contrast them: Ricardo talks a lot and quickly, while Mr. Jones speaks in a “tolerant tone,” which makes him sound superior and in charge.

Mr. Jones also keeps control by questioning: “How do you know?” and then coolly suggesting “toothache, for instance.” He even “interrupted him without heat,” so the verb “interrupted” and the phrase “without heat” show quiet authority. When Mr. Jones only “raised himself on his elbow,” “This sign of interest comforted his faithful henchman.” A small movement from the man in bed changes Ricardo’s mood, which suggests where the real power lies. The narrator’s labels, “faithful henchman,” “simple soul,” and “governor,” also show a clear hierarchy, and that “the moods of his governor were still a source of anxiety” makes Ricardo seem nervous.

However, Ricardo does try to push back: he grows “more assurance,” becomes “warmly argumentative,” and says, “it’s time we did a little think.” Even so, Mr. Jones shuts this down with, “You haven’t roused me to talk about yourself.”

Overall, I agree that Ricardo appears fussy and anxious, while Mr. Jones keeps the power from his bed.

Level 1 (Simple, limited) – 1–5 marks Simple ideas; limited methods; simple evaluation; simple references. Indicative Standard: A Level 1 response would simply agree that Ricardo seems nervous and fussy, citing basic words like fussiness and You are always making a fuss. It would also say Mr. Jones has the power, pointing to raised himself on his elbow and his tolerant tone while by the low bedstead.

I agree with the statement to a large extent. Ricardo comes across as nervous and fussy when he wakes his boss, while Mr. Jones keeps the power even though he is lying in bed. The writer shows Ricardo’s fussiness through the dialogue. He ‘plumped himself down’ ‘very close’ to the bed and immediately starts talking fast: ‘Because that there fellow can’t sleep’. His odd phrase ‘doing a think’ and the fact he ‘didn’t even try to go to sleep’ make him sound worried and overexcited.

Mr. Jones seems calm and in charge. He ‘raised himself on his elbow’ and asked, ‘How do you know?’ He speaks in a ‘tolerant tone’ and tells Ricardo, ‘You are always making a fuss.’ The verbs ‘inquired’, ‘remarked’ and ‘interrupted him without heat’ suggest control. Words like ‘patron’, ‘governor’ and ‘faithful henchman’ show the power gap. Even his small movement ‘comforted’ Ricardo, which makes Mr. Jones seem dominant though in bed.

Overall, I agree: Ricardo is nervous and fussy, and the real power belongs to Mr. Jones. Ricardo tries to take initiative with ‘we did a little think ourselves’, but Mr. Jones stops him: ‘You haven’t roused me to talk about yourself.’

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:

• Dynamic verb choices → present Ricardo as skittish and fussy, overreacting to uncertain stimuli → faint footfalls
• Purposeful staging (lighting to read reactions) → shows anxious deference; he must monitor Jones’s response, reinforcing subordination → watch their effect
• Emphatic modality → his claim of necessity heightens fussiness and urgency beyond proportion → absolutely necessary
• Proxemics and posture → sitting cross‑legged “very close” makes him seem importunate and servile beside the bedridden superior → very close
• Minimal movement and calm tone for Jones → controlled authority conveyed through effortless composure and cool interruption → without heat
• Dismissive direct speech → Jones explicitly labels Ricardo as fussy, cementing a power imbalance in their exchange → Confound your fussiness!
• Colloquial idiom → Ricardo’s phrase reduces complex inference to crude certainty, making him sound nervy and simple → doing a think
• Hierarchical labels → narrative naming fixes roles of master and subordinate, implying real power resides with Jones → faithful henchman
• Light/dark imagery → Ricardo’s small flame striving against darkness suggests anxious, almost ineffectual busyness, while Jones simply reclines → little dagger-like flame
• Counterpoint: initiative → Ricardo drives the encounter (candle, vigilance, proposal), hinting at limited agency despite deference → a little think

Question 5 - Mark Scheme

A popular podcast about unexplained events is asking for creative submissions from its listeners.

Choose one of the options below for your entry.

• Option A: Describe a room full of forgotten technology from your imagination. You may choose to use the picture provided for ideas:

• Option B: Write the opening of a story about a strange message appearing on a screen.

(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:

When the door sighs open, the room exhales a stale breath of warm plastic and faint ozone; dust rises like applause in the shafted light. In the heavy half-dark, towers of beige carcasses — monitors, tape decks, squat PCs — loom with the weary authority of monuments. Cables spill from shelves in black skeins, draped like sleeping vines over casings. Silence has a texture here: granular, velveteen, full of the small hush of settled time.

Each screen is a cataracted eye, thick-lashed with grime, glass catching a ribbon of sun; even off, they remember brightness. Faded stickers cling — RAM upgrades, serial numbers, a warning about static — their corners curled and brittle. A keyboard lies face-down, keycaps loose as teeth; the space bar is polished to an oyster sheen. The mouse, tethered by its umbilical cord, is weighted with the iron pea of its ball, stubborn.

Elsewhere, a regiment of VHS players, drawer-mouths agape, wait for tongues of tape; a Walkman in a blue sulks beneath a spool of cassettes; pagers blink no messages; a phone with a coiled cord sleeps mid-ring. Slide carousels nest in their round tins like lunar pastries. On a high shelf, an overhead projector keeps its lens lowered, its arm folded like a praying mantis. Dust powders everything, a pale bloom; the smell is sweetly stale, resinous, like old books and warm solder.

Between the racks, a tangle of ribbon cable and coax makes a shallow riverbed, a braided delta where screws lie like dull fish-scales and the occasional SIM card flashes a mica smile. Cobwebs from socket to socket stitch a spectral network; a brown spider patrols its own LAN. A single cooling fan twitches when the light shifts, a tiny vane stirred by the corridor’s exhalation — almost, but not quite, a heartbeat.

If coaxed, one would still spark: a green cursor; a caret; a whir that becomes a spin that becomes a whine. The room remembers the busy grammar of it all — clicking, clacking, crunching; the punctuation of the enter key; the paragraphing of boot sequences. Listen long enough and you hear it: not silence, exactly, but latency. Waiting.

And yet, for all their obsolescence, there is stubborn dignity. These machines were not made to be ephemeral; they are heavy, deliberate. Their plastic has yellowed; their bodies have ossified; their purpose has not. Who remembers how to wake them? Someone, somewhere — fingers that knew the choreography: control-alt-delete; eject, rewind, play. In this umbrageous repository, progress feels both inexorable and fragile, like glass held too tightly. The past sits in rows, stacks, boxes, dust-soft and resolute, patient as sediment. It waits — uncomplaining, unupdated — for a hand to reach, and a switch to click, and the old light to lift again.

Option B:

Midnight. The hour when the city finally loosens its jaw; when windows darken except for the stubborn blue squares; when the fridge hums like a moth trapped in a lampshade.

In Mara’s kitchen, the laptop sat squat, an aquarium of light that threw watery ripples across spoons, a cracked mug. She hunched, sleeves over cold wrists; her eyes chased a cursor through paragraphs that refused to cohere. Deadline. Submit. End.

She tapped, deleted, arranged; the fan rose to a dry whirr that made the air tremble almost imperceptibly. Somewhere in the corridor the radiator clicked, a metronome for diligence. She told herself, one more line—just one—and then bed.

Then the screen changed.

A rectangle irised from the corner—no icon, no notification bubble—and sat, a pale parchment over her work. The cursor paused as if listening. Words printed themselves in a neat, old-fashioned font, unapologetic and slow, as if a careful hand pressed keys she could not see.

It said: 'Hello, Mouse.'

Mara blinked. Spam, she thought: a misdirected joke. Nobody had called her Mouse since her grandfather, with his cigarette cough and peppermint wrappers, had died. She laughed—too loudly; the sound buckled and fell at once.

Her fingers hovered. Who is this? she typed, and the question looked meek, schoolish, a hand raised at the back of the room. The reply arrived before her enter key could make its small plastic click.

'Don’t send the email,' wrote the unseen correspondent. 'Don’t pretend you don’t see me. Check under your chin.'

She touched automatically, and there it was: the faint pale seam from the summer of the bicycle, the scar nobody noticed unless they were looking straight at her. The kitchen felt colder, though the radiator ticked on. A ridiculous, metallic fear pooled at the back of her tongue.

Coincidence, she told herself. Data knows everything. Nevertheless, the room seemed subtly rearranged, as if the air had shuffled closer to listen.

The box pulsed, polite as a library whisper. More words unspooled: 'The door is about to knock. Don’t answer it.'

The handle across the hall rattled.

Perhaps a draught; perhaps wind insinuating itself through the keyhole; perhaps the building remembering how to creak. And yet, the knock that followed was deliberate—three measured taps, evenly spaced, like a demonstration rather than a demand.

Mara stood, hating that she had. Sensible thoughts called her back; foolish curiosity tilted her forward. The laptop spoke again—pixels, yes, but urgent.

'If you open it,' it wrote, 'you won’t send anything ever again.'

It would have been very easy to close the lid. Simpler to pull the plug; but midnight has its own gravity, and screens their own tide, and Mara—like anyone, really—was not as buoyant as she liked to believe.

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

Option A:

A narrow blade of light slips through a crooked blind, banding the room with pale stripes. Dust rises to meet it: an obedient galaxy. Towers of beige computers lean into one another like tired commuters; square-jawed screens face each other; cables slouch like spent vines. A cracked monitor — stubborn, glassy — perches on a collapsed printer. In corners, black plastic gleams dully; the shapes are familiar and also foreign, as if years had shifted their meaning.

It smells of warm plastic even though nothing is warm: stale coffee, felt-tip ink, a metallic tang. Once, this room was an orchestra: fans thrummed; tiny speakers hissed; keys chattered. Once, lights blinked like city windows — on and off, on and off. Now the silence has weight; the quiet is not empty but thick, like a theatre after applause.

On the nearest desk, a CRT sits at a tilt, bulbous as a fishbowl. Its glass holds a faint greenish bruise where a cursor used to pulse; the surface is a palimpsest of fingerprints. The keyboard below is yellowed to the colour of old parchment; the space bar, slick with thumbs, is slightly concave. The letters A and S are pale. A curling Post-it whispers: Back up on Friday. In a shallow crate, little devices (pagers, remotes, nameless bricks) sulk in a tangle.

The wires are everywhere. They drape and knot into a patient net, a blackout sea in miniature. I follow one — past a modem — and lose it beneath a crate of floppy disks. The disks yield with a soft sigh and smell of damp attic. In the far corner, a hushed stack of televisions stands like a choir that forgot its hymn. It is, I suppose, a graveyard of gadgets: part museum, part attic, part shrine.

And yet, something persists. An LED steadies — a pea-green dot —; when I press a switch, a fan coughs, then spins. The sound is thin but alive; it flutters. Humming and halting. The screen lifts itself from black, not to an image, but to a promise. In this dim, layered room, time has not vanished; it waits in circuits and dust.

Option B:

Night arrived at the station without ceremony; it simply lowered itself over the platforms like a heavy blanket, muffling sound, diluting colour. In the control room the light came from screens—flat, obedient panes with their pale, persistent glow—and the rest of the world was an arrangement of shadows: the empty swivel chair, the droop of the high-vis jacket on its hook, the black square of window where my face hovered, faint and uncertain. The room smelled of old coffee and rain on metal. The clock ticked with the officiousness of a metronome. Routine breathed in my ear.

I liked the silence; I believed in it. On nights like this I could almost convince myself that time was something I kept, like a ledger, neat and squared off. The departure board hummed, the cursor winked its patient wink, and I flicked between CCTV feeds—Platform 1 sleeping, 2 and 3 laid out like ribs, 4 catching the trickle of drizzle in its fluorescent tubes. Somewhere, a pigeon scrabbled. Somewhere, the vending machine coughed a tin can into the plastic cradle.

Then the board cleared, as if inhaling. Letters threaded themselves into place, one by careful one, as though a hand I could not see were typing inside the glass. It did not show a destination. It did not show a time, at first. It wrote my name—my old name, the one I hadn’t heard aloud in years. EL.

Under it, something else: DO NOT LET HER BOARD THE 23:17.

For a second (longer than a second) I did not move. The station had no 23:17 service. The last departure was already a memory, a smudge. I swallowed. “Very funny,” I told the room, though I knew nobody had stayed on after close; Martyn had signed out at ten past ten with his usual grunt, the keys rattling like cutlery.

I checked the system—connections, schedules, the training manual’s laminated calm. No alerts. No maintenance notices. No prank messages saved in the templates. The board is a simple creature, I told myself; it eats data and prints it in neat lines. It does not address you. It does not remember.

On the glass of the window my reflection sharpened, the control room returning me my own wary eyes. The board flickered, stubbornly. Another line appeared, slotted in with the indifferent rhythm of an announcement: THIS IS NOT A JOKE.

I reached for the radio, more for company than anything. Static answered, a thin, combing sound. It felt suddenly colder in the room; the air thinned, as if someone had opened a door I couldn’t see. And still that sentence sat there, bright white on a field of black like chalk on slate, like a warning written by a careful teacher.

Who was her? The question landed in me with a strange weight. A memory I hadn’t invited arrived anyway: a girl on a platform years ago, a suitcase with a sticker of a bluebird, laughter smudged by wind. I had turned away to answer a call, and when I turned back—

Behind me, on a CCTV screen I hadn’t switched to, something moved. My own voice tried to steady me; my heart did not obey. The board flashed once, decisively, and the final line stamped itself across the top in capital letters that left no room for my neat ledger of time:

DO NOT TURN AROUND.

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

Option A:

At first the room seems empty of sound; then you notice the strip light’s slow vibration. The door skews a line of daylight across the floor, and in it the motes drift like a snow‑globe someone shook years ago. You breathe in: warm plastic, old paper, a thread of ozone. This is a museum without labels, a tide-line of devices where the sea of time has drawn back and left them stranded.

Monitors rise in uneven stacks, cube on cube; convex glass eyes stare with a dull sheen. Their backs are ridged like shells, vents furred with lint; cables trail like black seaweed. Names scrawled on stickers: Room 12; AV; Do Not Move. A standby light seems to wink—a pulse of life—no, only a reflection sliding off the glass. Above, strip light stutters and holds, as if the room is breathing.

Beige towers squat, patient. Through a grille a fan blade stalls under a grey pelt. Keyboards wait with missing teeth; the letter E has been rubbed to anonymity. A yellowed mouse coils its cord like a sleeping snake. In a biscuit tin lie floppy disks, labels in biro: Payroll 1999; Drivers; Holiday Pics. A printer leans on a mouthful of perforated paper. A VHS cassette yawns, tape spilling its ribbon, while a silver CD flashes a rainbow.

Here everything is slower and heavier than you remember. Once these machines sang—the staccato dial-up, the fan’s whirr; once screens bloomed with hopeful windows. Now they only wait; meanwhile, outside, things grow thinner, brighter, faster; inside they cling to careful rituals, saving to fragile squares, ticking off progress in bars. Even now, if a switch were pressed, perhaps a cough, a stir, the glow would return; perhaps it wouldn’t. The air tastes metallic (it catches at the back of your throat).

You trail a finger through the powder on a keyboard and leave a clean river; letters reappear like islands. Then you step backwards, avoiding the bramble of cords, moving through a snagged garden. The door closes, the light narrows to a blade, and the room settles into its half-dark—patient, obsolete, almost breathing.

Option B:

Midnight. The hour the house held its breath; the laptop did not. Its blue-white glow flattened my room into paper, shaving the edges off my posters and pinning my reflection behind the glass. The radiator clicked. Outside, rain stitched the dark together, thin needles tapping the guttering in a restless rhythm.

I told myself I would stop after one more paragraph. Exams were stamped all over my calendar, like warnings. My mug of tea had cooled to a stale skin; the cursor blinked, patient as a metronome, a pulse nobody but me could hear.

Then the words appeared—no sound, no alert, just letters unfurling across the empty document as if tugged out of the screen from the other side.

Do you remember the red kite?

I froze. The room, which had been full of small, ordinary noises, became a tight silence I could taste. Red kite. The one that tore on the school fence in Year 4; the one that Dad tried to fix with tape that didn’t hold. Nobody talked about that, because Dad hated failing at small things and, afterwards, we never flew anything again. Who would type that now?

I typed back, fingers tremoring despite myself: Who is this?

The reply came before I could blink: I’m you when you’re not looking.

Ridiculous. Either Theo was messing with me, or my computer had finally given up and joined a cult. I did the sensible checklist: checked the Wi-Fi icon; glanced at the open tabs; jabbed the Escape key; tried to close the document. Nothing changed. The letters kept arriving, clean, insistent.

Don’t turn around.

A drop of rain slid down the window, slow as honey. My shoulders itched, a low, prickling heat. I stared at my hands, at the bitten nails; I tried to laugh and it sounded too loud.

Why? I typed. Why not?

Because the screen is easier to trust than the glass, came the answer. And because your reflection just blinked.

I looked up on instinct—too quick, too human—and saw only myself, pale and thinned by light, the cursor still pulsing. Yet, in the corner of the screen, the tiniest shimmer moved, like breath on a mirror, and the message box opened one last time:

Open the door. It’s already here.

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

Option A:

A thin strip of daylight slides under the door, waking the dust. It hangs in the room like breath that never leaves. The air is stale but strangely sweet, the smell of heated plastic and old cardboard. Towers of computer monitors are piled against the walls, heavy glass faces turned away from each other as if they are shy. Cables nest in corners, every surface holds a soft coat of grey; when I move, the powder lifts in slow swirls and settles again.

On a metal shelf sit yellowed keyboards, their letters rubbed to ghosts. A fax machine yawns with its tray open, hungry for paper that will not come. VHS cassettes, cracked at the hinges, are lined up like books. I read stamped labels: Office, Accounts 1998, Holiday Mix. In a crate are floppy disks and a portable CD player, its scratched lid catching the thin light. The rubber on a mouse has perished, leaving a tacky ring - it sticks to my fingertip.

A thin hum seems trapped in the room, even though everything is off. When I touch a switch, a tiny crackle of static bites; a sleeping CRT blinks once, a green dot that fades like a firefly. The silence that follows feels crowded. Somewhere a drip taps. The blinds tick in the draught and carve pale ladders over screens. Once they chattered; once they sang; once they mattered, that is the thought that keeps circling.

The machines look older than they are, the way people do when they are left alone. Their bodies have sagged, their buttons dulled, but there is a stubborn dignity about them. They are a museum without labels, a kind of graveyard, but kinder. If I switched everything on, would the room remember my name, or would it only cough and spark? I close the door and the daylight narrows, the dust falls back to sleep.

Option B:

It was late, and the room was lit only by the laptop. The rest of the house seemed to hold its breath; the heating clicked, the blind fluttered when a car went by. The cursor on the empty document pulsed like a tiny heartbeat, patient and constant. My mug of cold, sweet tea smelt tired and the faint hum of the fan choked the quiet. Homework sat open in another tab, half-finished, half-ignored.

I shifted to close it all down when the screen gave a small shiver, a flicker like a blink. Then letters appeared, one by one, without any sound at all: HELLO, ELLIOT. They were not bold or dramatic, just ordinary, grey, deliberate. I stared. I hadn't typed anything; the keyboard lay under my palms like a sleeping animal.

It wasn’t a pop-up, not an email, not a message from a friend—it was just there, stamped across the white page. For a moment I blamed the Wi-Fi. I sneezed at the dusty air and laughed, too loud; it hit the cupboards and fell flat. Who would bother to do this? A prank? A virus? My chest thudded, steady but fast, like a drummer trying to keep time.

I reached for the mouse and typed: who is this? The reply came at once, as if it had been waiting: YOU ARE LATE. My mouth went dry. Late for what? Another line arrived, more careful, like someone leaning close to speak: CHECK THE PHOTOS ON YOUR PHONE. I didn’t move. The phone lay face down, black-screened, and it suddenly felt heavier than it should. The last line slid onto the screen so calmly it made the hairs on my arms rise—DON’T TURN AROUND. The room seemed to shrink. The laptop fan whined. And behind me, something soft tapped the window.

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

Option A:

The strip light stutters overhead, on and off, on and off, smearing pale bands across the stacked monitors. Dust floats like slow snow, settling on plastic that once shone. Cold air carries a faint electric smell: warm dust mixed. Screens stare back, blank and heavy, glassy eyes that remember things I don’t. A thin window leaks a slice of evening; it lands on a tower unit, making it look important. I step in; cables graze my ankles like dry weeds. They whisper when I move.

Keyboards lie in drifts, their keys yellowed, their letters rubbed to ghosts. A printer yawns open with its mouth full of stubborn paper; the paper is brittle, it crunches when I touch it. A box of floppy disks leans against a radio with a cracked face; the dial is stuck between stations, like a heart that can’t decide. VHS tapes stack like black books, and a tangle of chargers has forgotten its owners. Somewhere a tiny fan still tries — a weak, whir — it starts, it stops, it starts again.

Meanwhile, the room keeps its museum silence. Every object feels half asleep, as if waiting to be woken by the right password, the right pair of hands. Time has piled here, not dust only. It is a kind of tide: it came in and never went out. I think about the people who sat with these machines, faces lit by blue, hopes clicking. The machines do not answer; they only keep their memories shut, humming quietly in the dark.

Option B:

Night. The time of quiet flats; screens humming softly, little lights blinking like eyes in the dim. In Liam’s room the blue glow pressed against the walls; rain tapped an impatient rhythm on the window where his reflection hovered, a pale silhouette. His laptop, old but stubborn, warmed his knees like a small animal. He yawned; the cursor blinked on an empty document — steady, steady, like a metronome.

He rubbed his gritty eyes and started to type an essay title. Letters marched, ordinary, and then they didn't. The screen stuttered. A line appeared that wasn’t his, thin and pale as chalk: "ARE YOU THERE, LIAM?" Something prickled the back of his neck. He froze. The house seemed to hold it's breath.

He laughed, too loud. He told himself it was a prank, the Wi‑Fi was glitching, some stupid pop-up. He hit backspace; the words dissolved. Relief crawled in, slow and shaky. Then, before he could inhale again, the message returned—bolder this time, a little closer to the bottom of the page: "DON’T DELETE ME." His heart kicked like a trapped bird. He glanced at the door, at the hall where a strip of yellow light lay across the carpet. No one. Only the radiator ticking. It felt wierdly personal; the screen looked back, patient, almost amused.

He typed: "Who is this?" His fingers trembled, leaving smudges on the trackpad. The rain got louder, or maybe his ears did. He could taste that metal taste you get before a storm. The cursor paused, as if thinking.

Then it answered.

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

Option A:

At first the room looks like a museum that someone forgot. Dust hangs in the thin window light, slow and lazy. Stacks of square monitors lean on each other, tower cases lie on their sides like sleeping dogs. Cables twist across the floor like black vines, coiled and lost. The air smells of warm dust and faint plastic. It is a graveyard of buttons; it is quiet, expectant.

In the corner, a tiny green light still blinks — a stubborn star. Keyboards wait with their letters rubbed pale, the space bar greasy. Disks in cracked boxes sit in a plastic crate: floppy, shiny, useless now. A printer is half full of paper that has turned yellow at the edges; it looks like teeth. Tape players with their lids open look like mouths that want to speak, but the words are gone.

Once, I think, this room was busy. The click-clack of keys, the little fans whirring, a phone ringing, voices mixing with the hum. Now the silence and dust was heavy. There is a faint smell when I touch a switch and nothing wakes; it stays dead, obedient and still. No one comes here, no one needs these things anymore. The door sighs shut behind me. Left behind.

Option B:

Night. The time when houses hush; windows glow; streets seem to hold their breath. Rain brushed the roof and the clock ticked on the mantelpiece. In my room the only light was the screen, cold and pale, like a small moon that had lost its warmth.

I was meant to be finishing homework, half a science graph, half a message to my best friend. My fingers tapped, stopped, tapped again. The laptop fan whispered.

Then it appeared.

At first I thought it was a notification. A black box at the bottom of the screen. But there was no icon, no sound. Just words that shouldn't be there: 'I SEE YOU.'

I froze. The message blinked, it wasn't from any app. I clicked every tab; email, chat, settings - nothing. The cursor started to move by itself, a thin insect crawling across white.

'Who are you?' I typed, trying to laugh. The room didn't laugh. The radiator creaked, the rain made soft drips. Again the letters built themselves, slow and sure: 'TURN AROUND.'

I didn't. I couldn't. My reflection in the glass was a dull silhouette, a smudge of hair and shoulders. It felt like the screen knew me, the way a mirror watches.

The kettle in the kitchen began to boil, far away. I told myself it was a prank, a glitch, just some silly hack. But the message changed, and this time it used my name.

'Maya, dont be scared.'

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

Option A:

The room is small and dark. Dust sits on everything like soft snow, but it is not soft. Old computer screens are piled up, their glass eyes turned away. Some just stare. I can feel the air taste of metal and old plastic. Cables crawl over the floor like black snakes, but they dont move. A keyboard lies with missing teeth, peices that say F1, F2, F3.

A monitor sits in the corner. It looks like an old TV. It used to buzz. Now it is quiet, quiet. The buttons are sticky, and my finger leaves a mark.

On a shelf there is a tape, and a phone with a cord, and a square disk. They feel heavy. I try to turn one on but the plug is the wrong shape and the socket is away and so I just listen, but there is no sound, only the room breathing.

Option B:

It was late. The room was quiet and my small screen glowed a pale blue like a fish tank. I was tired and I rubbed my eyes, the laptop hummed. Then the words came. At first they were tiny and fuzzy, then they got bigger. Hello. Can you see me. My heart did a jump, I looked behind me for no reason.

It changed again: I KNOW YOUR NAME

My name flashed up, wrong spelling but close, it was still scary. I ain’t dreaming, I said out loud, even though I was alone. The light felt colder, my hands felt wierd. I pressed the power button, it didn’t turn off. Again and again the words blinked, again and again. Who is that? Who is that. I typed hello back with slow fingers. The reply was fast, too fast. LOOK OUT, it said, and the hallway door made a small click like a tongue.

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

Option A:

Its dark in here. Cold air sits in the room. I see old computers and screens. They are stacked, like boxes. Dust is on every thing, it makes my nose itch and I cough. The wires go over the floor like spaghetti and they twist and twist, on and on. Some screens stare back, black eyes, some cracked, they was left on once maybe. A little red light blinks, blink blink, then stops. The keyboards are sticky and the keys click when I tap, too loud. I dont touch them. It smells like metal and damp and old. My grandad had one like this, big and heavy, he called it a monitor and a mouse.

Option B:

The screen was bright and kind of cold on my face. A message came up by it self. HELLO. Then more words, from you. From under the floor. I stared and I dont even breath, I press the keys and they dont work, the mouse is stuck, the light flicker like a ghost. Maybe its just my friend, he does pranks all the time, he send me silly stuff. The message change again. dont look behind you. I dont. I do a little. The hall is dark and the fish tank is off and the house is too quiet. Mum says tea is ready but I wait.