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 According to the second speaker, how long has the fog been around?: It has been around all night. – 1 mark
• 1.2 How does Jim respond to Huck’s question about the fog?: Jim insists fog has been around all night and begins to mention whooping. – 1 mark
• 1.3 According to the second spoken line, for how long has the fog been around?: all night – 1 mark
• 1.4 Which statement best summarises the contrast between the two speakers in this exchange?: The first speaker appears unaware of any fog, while the second speaker insists there has been fog throughout the night. – 1 mark

Question 2 - Mark Scheme

Look in detail at this extract, from lines 11 to 20 of the source:

11 “Well, this is too many for me, Jim. I hain’t seen no fog, nor no islands, nor no troubles, nor nothing. I been setting here talking with you all night till you went to sleep about ten minutes ago, and I reckon I done the same. You couldn’t a got drunk in that time, so of course you’ve been dreaming.”

16 “Dad fetch it, how is I gwyne to dream all dat in ten minutes?” “Well, hang it all, you did dream it, because there didn’t any of it happen.” “But, Huck, it’s all jis’ as plain to me as—”

How does the writer use language here to present Huck’s disbelief and the idea that Jim has been dreaming? 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 typically contrasts Huck’s assertive scepticism—voiced in the cumulative, emphatically negative list "hain’t seen no fog, nor no islands, nor no troubles, nor nothing" and the modal certainty "of course you’ve been dreaming"—with Jim’s dialectal resistance in the rhetorical question "how is I gwyne to dream all dat in ten minutes?" and sensory insistence "jis’ as plain", to foreground disbelief versus lived experience. It would also analyse how colloquial interjections ("Dad fetch it", "hang it all"), nonstandard/phonetic grammar, and the causal, circular declarative "you did dream it, because there didn’t any of it happen" shape tone and power, while the precise time marker "ten minutes" and contrast of declaratives with a rhetorical question heighten tension.

The writer crafts Huck’s disbelief through emphatic negation and accumulative syntax. Opening with the idiomatic “this is too many for me, Jim,” Huck’s hyperbole signals exasperation while the vocative “Jim” asserts control of the narrative. His chain “hain’t seen no fog, nor no islands, nor no troubles, nor nothing” deploys double negatives and polysyndetic anaphora on “nor,” a list that accumulates denials to bulldoze Jim’s account. The breadth of the negatives systematically cancels every element, presenting disbelief as comprehensive and decisive.

Moreover, Huck moves from tentative to absolute modality: “I reckon” softens his voice, but “so of course you’ve been dreaming” snaps shut the argument. The modal adverb “of course,” paired with the causal connective “so,” manufactures inevitability, while temporal specificity—“ten minutes”—and the pragmatic aside “You couldn’t a got drunk in that time” supply pseudo-logic. His flat declarative “because there didn’t any of it happen” functions as a self-validating assertion; despite the non‑standard syntax, the tone is uncompromising, reinforcing his certainty.

Additionally, Jim’s resistance is shaped by sentence form and dialect. The interjection “Dad fetch it” conveys affront, and his rhetorical question, “how is I gwyne to dream all dat in ten minutes?” challenges Huck’s timeline, the deictic “all dat” stressing the quantity of remembered detail. Finally, the broken-off simile “jis’ as plain to me as—” (aposiopesis) suggests either interruption or faltering proof, highlighting how Huck’s certainty silences him. Thus, through dialect, modality and structural choices, the passage presents Huck’s incredulous dismissal and frames Jim’s experience as ‘only a dream.’

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 point out Twain’s use of emphatic negatives and repetition to convey Huck’s disbelief, as he insists “hain’t seen no fog, nor no islands, nor no troubles, nor nothing” and asserts “so of course you’ve been dreaming” and “you did dream it.” It would also note the contrasting dialect and sentence forms—Jim’s indignant rhetorical question “Dad fetch it, how is I gwyne to dream all dat in ten minutes?” and the broken-off “jis’ as plain to me as—”—which highlight the clash between Huck’s dismissal and Jim’s certainty.

The writer uses dialect, listing and multiple negatives to present Huck’s disbelief. In “I hain’t seen no fog, nor no islands, nor no troubles, nor nothing,” the repeated “nor” and stacked negatives create a piling-on effect that emphatically denies Jim’s story. The idiomatic phrase “this is too many for me” signals Huck’s refusal to accept it, making his disbelief sound blunt and colloquial.

Furthermore, assertive declaratives and modal certainty shape the idea that Jim has been dreaming. Huck’s “of course you’ve been dreaming” uses the adverbial phrase “of course” to present his view as obvious, while “you did dream it, because there didn’t any of it happen” employs the causal connective “because” to offer circular, confident logic. The second-person pronoun “you” places blame squarely on Jim, reinforcing Huck’s scepticism.

Additionally, contrasting sentence forms show the dispute. Jim’s rhetorical question, “how is I gwyne to dream all dat in ten minutes?” repeats the time marker “ten minutes” to challenge Huck’s claim. Meanwhile, interjections like “Well,” and “hang it all” convey exasperation, and the broken-off line “it’s all jis’ as plain to me as—” uses a dash to show Jim’s certainty being interrupted, keeping Huck’s disbelief dominant.

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 shows Huck’s disbelief through repetition of negatives like "no fog, nor no islands, nor no troubles, nor nothing" and dialect such as "hain’t", making it sound certain nothing happened. Jim’s rhetorical question "how is I gwyne to dream all dat in ten minutes?" contrasts with Huck’s short, firm statement "you did dream it", which suggests Jim’s confusion and Huck’s insistence that it was a dream.

The writer uses dialect and repetition to show Huck’s disbelief. The repeated negatives in “hain’t seen no fog, nor no islands, nor no troubles, nor nothing” form a list that piles up denials, making his doubt strong. The phrase “of course you’ve been dreaming” shows certainty and dismisses Jim’s story.

Furthermore, Huck uses reasoning with “You couldn’t a got drunk in that time,” so he concludes it must be a dream. The time phrase “ten minutes” is repeated by both speakers to stress how unlikely Jim’s tale is.

Additionally, the interjections and colloquial words, like “Well” and “hang it all,” create an impatient tone, while Jim’s question, “how is I gwyne to dream all dat in ten minutes?” challenges Huck and keeps the idea of dreaming central. The direct speech lets the reader hear Huck’s disbelief and the continuing argument about whether it was a dream.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple comment; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer shows Huck’s disbelief with repeated negatives like "hain’t seen no fog" and "nor nothing", and the blunt "you’ve been dreaming", which shows he thinks none of it happened. Jim’s dialect and question — "Dad fetch it", "gwyne", "how is I gwyne to dream all dat in ten minutes?" — show he argues back and believes it was real, saying it’s "jis’ as plain to me".

The writer uses repetition of the word “dream” to show Huck’s disbelief. He says “you’ve been dreaming” and again “you did dream it”, which makes him sound sure nothing happened.

Moreover, the negative list “nor no fog, nor no islands, nor no troubles, nor nothing” emphasises he saw nothing, so he refuses to believe Jim.

Furthermore, the colloquial dialect like “hain’t” and “reckon” gives Huck a strong voice and blunt tone.

Additionally, the declarative “there didn’t any of it happen” contrasts with Jim’s rhetorical question “how is I gwyne to dream…?”, showing the argument.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Colloquial dismissal signals immediate skepticism and refusal to accept Jim’s account: too many for me
• Double negatives foreground Huck’s emphatic denial that anything occurred: I hain’t seen no
• Anaphoric listing with repeated “nor” builds a sweeping rejection of events: nor no islands
• Precise, repeated time reference makes Huck’s version sound reasonable and Jim’s unlikely: ten minutes
• Logical connectives show confident, assertive reasoning that closes down debate: so of course
• Lexical repetition hammers home Huck’s preferred explanation of the night: you did dream it
• Alternative cause raised then rejected to reinforce the dream claim: couldn’t a got drunk
• Second-person accusation personalises and intensifies Huck’s challenge to Jim: you’ve been dreaming
• Phonetic dialect marks contrasting voices and highlights the clash of perceptions: gwyne to dream
• Incomplete simile capped by a dash leaves Jim’s certainty hanging, undercutting it: plain to me as—

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 intimacy?

You could write about:

• how intimacy deepens by the end of 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: Level 4 responses would trace intimacy through structural pacing and shifts in control: a reflective pause ("Jim didn’t say nothing for about five minutes"), the ritual "’terpret" sequence, and the steady gaze ("looked at me steady") pivot the scene from playful deception to moral closeness as Jim names the lie "trash", after which the clipped "But that was enough" and time marker "It was fifteen minutes" slow the narrative into Huck’s shame and apology ("I done it...I warn’t ever sorry for it").

One way the writer structures the episode to create intimacy is by framing it as sustained, face-to-face dialogue through a homodiegetic narrator. The quick exchanges and second-person address, "tell me all about it, Jim," create immediacy, while the pause, "about five minutes," slows the pace and makes space for reflection. The focus is narrowed to the raft, a private enclave, and the first-person vantage keeps us inside Huck’s perceptions, sharing night-time confidences.

In addition, the writer embeds Jim’s dream as an intra-diegetic narrative and its "'terpretation", shifting focus from Huck’s prank to Jim’s inner world. This reorientation invites empathy. The weather motif—"clouded up... clearing up"—acts as a hinge, mirroring the relationship’s clearing. A pivot occurs when Huck points to the "leaves and rubbish... and the smashed oar", prompting a volta from play to truth. Jim’s steady look and the charged noun "trash" turn the scene into an intimate, honest reckoning.

A further structural choice is the use of temporal markers and silence to modulate pace. Jim "went in... without saying anything", and Huck delays—"fifteen minutes"—before he can bring himself to "humble myself". These pauses operate as caesurae, foregrounding interiority: "it made me feel so mean". The extract closes with quiet resolution—"I warn’t ever sorry for it"—providing closure and signalling relational development. By moving from denial, through an embedded confession, to a delayed apology, the writer shapes an arc in which intimacy deepens.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Explains effects; relevant examples; clear terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 3 response would clearly explain how intimacy grows through structural shifts: from sustained first-person dialogue inviting closeness (tell me all about it, Jim) to a slowed pace (Jim didn’t say nothing for about five minutes) and a pivot on eye contact (he looked at me steady). It would identify the tonal move from the playful “dream” episode to Jim’s honest rebuke built around trash, leading to Huck’s inward response (made me feel so mean) and action (humble myself), showing intimacy deepening by the end.

One way in which the writer has structured the text to create a sense of intimacy is through a sustained first-person narrative framed by close dialogue. The extract begins and continues with direct speech and reporting clauses (“Then he says…”, “I says…”), so we stay inside a two-person exchange. This tight turn-taking and the repeated “I/you” address (“tell me all about it, Jim”) draw us into their private space on the raft, making the relationship feel immediate and close.

In addition, the writer controls pace with temporal references and pauses to deepen the bond. The silence—“Jim didn’t say nothing for about five minutes”—creates shared stillness, shifting the tone from teasing to reflective. A shift in focus follows: Huck invites an embedded recount as Jim “told me the whole thing” and then “’terpret[s] it”. Giving Jim an extended turn privileges his voice, which builds trust between them and with the reader.

A further structural choice is a clear turning point and resolution. The narrative zooms in on small details (“the leaves and rubbish… the smashed oar”), triggering Jim’s steady rebuke about “trash”. His slow withdrawal (“got up slow”) heightens the emotional climax. The ending then foregrounds Huck’s interior response and action: “It was fifteen minutes before I could… humble myself… but I done it” and “I warn’t ever sorry for it.” Placing this change at the end shows the intimacy has deepened by the close.

Level 2 (Some understanding and comment) – 3–4 marks Attempts to comment; some examples; some terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 2 response typically identifies a simple shift across the whole extract from playful denial to serious emotion: dialogue about "de fog" and Huck’s refusal ("I hain’t seen no fog") slows into a pause ("Jim didn’t say nothing for about five minutes") before Jim’s earnest address ("I’se gwyne to tell you"). It would comment on pacing and perspective with basic examples—time markers ("five minutes", "fifteen minutes"), the central "dream" section, and Huck’s first-person remorse ("It made me feel so mean", "go and humble myself")—to show intimacy deepens by the end.

One way in which the writer has structured the text to create intimacy is by beginning in the middle of dialogue. The opening “What fog?” puts us right beside Huck and Jim, hearing their voices. This direct speech keeps the focus on their talk, so we feel close as they disagree.

In addition, the focus shifts in the middle to Jim’s longer speech and pauses. The time references, “about five minutes” and “fifteen minutes,” slow the pace, letting us sit with their feelings. When Jim says “trash is what people is…”, the tone turns serious and personal.

A further structural feature is how the ending resolves the tension. Huck humbles himself—“I done it, and I warn’t ever sorry for it”—showing a move from trick to apology. This change to making up, seen through Huck’s perspective, makes their bond feel closer by the end.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 1 response might say the writer creates intimacy by using lots of direct talk and the narrator’s “I” (e.g., 'What fog?', 'I says') so we feel close to the conversation. They may also notice it becomes more intimate by the end, with a pause ('about five minutes') before emotional lines like 'de tears come' and 'humble myself'.

One way the writer creates intimacy is through dialogue at the start. The back and forth speech between Huck and Jim about the 'fog' puts us right next to them, showing their bond and private talk.

In addition, the first-person voice makes it personal. We hear Huck's feelings, and the short sentence 'But that was enough.' shows simple emotion, so we feel close to them.

A further structural feature is the change in focus. It moves from the dream, to the 'trash' lesson, to Huck humbling himself after 'fifteen minutes', using time words to slow the moment and deepen intimacy.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• In medias res dialogue drops us into a private exchange, creating immediacy and closeness: What fog?
• Alternating perspectives (Jim’s certainty vs Huck’s denial) structure a trust-testing tussle that feels personal: you’ve been dreaming
• A timed silence slows the pace and invites shared reflection, pulling us into their emotional space: about five minutes
• Huck’s invitation to narrate creates a collaborative storytelling space, deepening rapport as he listens: tell me all about it
• The retelling followed by interpretation turns action into shared analysis, drawing them closer through joint sense-making: told me the whole thing
• The pivot from symbols to concrete evidence narrows focus to their small shared world on the raft: leaves and rubbish
• A steady, wordless confrontation is a structural turning point that demands honesty and connection: looked at me steady
• Jim’s heartfelt monologue crescendos into a direct moral address, intimacy forged through truth-telling: trash is what people is
• Brief physical withdrawal creates a fragile distance that heightens Huck’s urge to repair the bond: walked to the wigwam
• A measured delay to apology and retrospective seal show intimacy deepened and enduring beyond the scene: I warn’t ever sorry

Question 4 - Mark Scheme

For this question focus on the second part of the source, from line 31 to the end.

In this part of the source, Jim’s comment that Huck's lie is ‘trash’ is very powerful. The writer suggests that what Huck sees as a simple joke has caused his friend real pain.

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

In your response, you could:

• consider your impressions of Jim's reaction to Huck's deception
• comment on the methods the writer uses to convey the power of Jim's speech
• 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 uses symbolism, dialect, and focalisation to recast Huck’s ‘simple joke’ as cruelty: the pivot from literal debris to moral judgment in Jim’s bolded “‘trash’” (expanded by “‘puts dirt on de head er dey fren’s’”) gives his rebuke moral force. It would support this with Jim’s dignified pain (“‘could a got down on my knees en kiss yo’ foot’”) and Huck’s shamed narration (“‘feel so mean’”; “‘humble myself’”), signalling an ethical awakening.

I strongly agree that Jim’s naming Huck’s lie as “trash” is very powerful; through a marked structural shift, charged diction and symbolic imagery, the writer reveals that what Huck frames as a harmless prank inflicts real emotional harm on his friend.

At first, the tone is almost playful as Huck urges, “tell me all about it, Jim,” and Jim “painted it up considerable,” echoing the novel’s usual game of stories and interpretation. The writer then engineers a pivot. Huck’s pointed question—“what does these things stand for?”—drags the focus from the airy “dream” to the stubbornly material “leaves and rubbish… and the smashed oar.” The stage-direction-like detail that Jim “looked at the trash, and then looked at me, and back at the trash again” slows the pace and builds tension; his double-take literalises the move from fantasy to fact, preparing the ground for moral reckoning.

Jim’s speech itself is rhetorically potent. Delivered “steady without ever smiling,” its quiet dignity heightens its force. The emotive lexis—“my heart wuz mos’ broke,” “de tears come”—and the polysyndeton of “all wore out wid work, en wid de callin’ for you, en went to sleep” convey both physical exhaustion and profound care. Direct second-person address (“you wuz los’… you wuz thinkin’ ’bout…”) makes the rebuke inescapably personal. Crucially, the symbolism of “trash” operates on two levels: the literal “leaves and rubbish” on the raft and the moral indictment—“trash is what people is dat puts dirt on de head er dey fren’s en makes ’em ashamed.” That definition reframes a child’s “joke” as an act of humiliation, and the concrete image of “dirt… on de head” materialises the shame Jim feels. The writer’s representation of Jim’s vernacular voice is not caricature, but a vehicle for ethical clarity; his measured exit—“got up slow and walked to the wigwam”—and the terse narrative sentence, “But that was enough,” underline the speech’s weight more than any shouting could.

Huck’s reaction confirms its impact. His hyperbolic remorse—“made me feel so mean I could almost kissed his foot”—mirrors Jim’s earlier gratitude (“I could a… kiss yo’ foot”), a chiasmic echo that exposes the reversal: Huck now seeks the humility he had mocked. The phrase “work myself up to go and humble myself” reveals internal conflict, while the ugly racial term he uses for Jim exposes the social prejudice he must push against. Yet the retrospective judgement—“I warn’t ever sorry for it”—signals genuine moral growth caused by Jim’s pain-laden truth.

Overall, the writer persuasively shows that Huck’s “simple” lie cuts deep. The controlled structure, symbolic “trash” motif, and emotive, dignified rhetoric make Jim’s rebuke not only powerful, but transformative.

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 largely agree, explaining that Jim’s rebuke is powerful through his serious tone and emotive language—looked at me steady without ever smiling and my heart wuz mos’ broke—and his moral judgement in calling the lie trash and saying trash is what people is, showing real hurt. It would also note Huck’s shift from prank to remorse—made me feel so mean and going to humble myself—as evidence that what he saw as a simple joke causes genuine pain.

I agree to a large extent that Jim’s calling Huck’s lie “trash” is very powerful, and the writer shows clearly that what Huck thought was a harmless joke causes Jim real hurt. The tone shifts from playful to solemn: after Huck prompts Jim to “’terpret” the dream, the mood is light and imaginative, but it changes the moment Jim “looked at the trash, and then looked at me… steady without ever smiling.” This contrast prepares us for a moral rebuke rather than more joking.

Jim’s speech is emotionally charged through dialect and emotive language. His hyperbolic expression “my heart wuz mos’ broke” and the image of “de tears come” reveal genuine distress. The humility in “I could a got down on my knees en kiss yo’ foot” shows how grateful and vulnerable he felt, which makes Huck’s prank seem cruel. The key word “trash” works as a symbol: it refers to the literal “leaves and rubbish” on the raft but, more powerfully, becomes a metaphor for people who betray friends. Jim defines it like a proverb—“trash is what people is dat puts dirt on de head er dey fren’s en makes ’em ashamed”—turning a personal hurt into a universal moral truth. The steady, unsmiling delivery and the direct address “you” intensify the impact.

Structurally, the pause and silence after the speech deepen its power. Jim “got up slow and walked to the wigwam… But that was enough.” That short sentence signals finality and wounded dignity. The first-person narration then shows the effect: Huck “feel[s] so mean” and takes “fifteen minutes” to “humble” himself. The echo of “kiss yo’ foot” (Huck almost doing what Jim would have done) highlights his shame. However, Huck’s prejudice lingers, which complicates the moment and shows the pain has forced him to confront his values.

Overall, I strongly agree: through contrast, symbolism, emotive dialogue, and structural pacing, the writer makes Jim’s condemnation searing and shows the real pain behind Huck’s “joke.”

Level 2 (Some evaluation) – 6–10 marks Some understanding; some methods; some evaluative comments; some references. Indicative Standard: A typical Level 2 response mostly agrees that Jim’s rebuke 'trash' is powerful, using simple quotes to show his pain like 'my heart wuz mos’ broke' and 'de tears come', and Huck’s guilt in 'so mean' and 'humble myself'. It may briefly note that the writer’s use of direct speech/dialect and Jim’s 'looked at me steady' help show that what Huck thought was a joke really hurt his friend.

I mostly agree that Jim’s comment is very powerful because the writer shows how Huck’s “joke” causes real hurt. At first, Huck treats it as fun: he urges Jim to “’terpret” the dream and points to “the leaves and rubbish” and the “smashed oar” like it’s still a game. This sets up a contrast between Huck’s light tone and the serious mood that follows.

When Jim realises the truth, the writer uses direct speech and careful description to show his pain. Jim “looked at me steady without ever smiling,” which signals a change. His dialect makes the emotion feel raw: “my heart wuz mos’ broke” and “the tears come.” The repeated word “trash” works as a metaphor for the lie and for people who “puts dirt on de head er dey fren’s,” which suggests humiliation. The phrase “makes ’em ashamed” shows the real damage Huck has done to their friendship.

Jim’s actions after the speech add to the power. He “got up slow and walked to the wigwam,” and the short sentence “But that was enough” makes the message hit hard. Finally, the first-person narration lets us see Huck’s guilt: “It made me feel so mean,” and he says he had to “humble myself” and that he “warn’t ever sorry.” This change suggests the speech has real moral force.

Overall, I agree to a large extent. Through contrast, emotive language and structure, the writer turns a supposed joke into a moment of real pain and growth.

Level 1 (Simple, limited) – 1–5 marks Simple ideas; limited methods; simple evaluation; simple references. Indicative Standard: A Level 1 response would mostly agree, simply noting that Jim calls the lie "trash" and says "de tears come" and people are "ashamed". It might add that Huck "feel so mean" he must "go and humble myself", showing the joke hurt Jim.

I mostly agree with the statement. Jim calling Huck’s lie “trash” is very powerful because it ends the playful mood and shows he is hurt.

The writer uses Jim’s direct speech and dialect to make his feelings clear. He says “my heart wuz mos’ broke” and “de tears come,” which is emotive language and shows real pain. He “looked at me steady without ever smiling,” and when he says “Dat truck dah is trash,” he repeats “trash” and explains it as people who shame their friends.

Huck’s reaction also shows the power of Jim’s words. He says it “made me feel so mean,” and he “could almost kissed his foot,” which shows guilt. “But that was enough” suggests a short speech has a big effect, and after “fifteen minutes” he goes to “humble myself,” so he knows it wasn’t a harmless joke.

Overall, I agree to a large extent that the writer shows Jim felt real pain and that the word “trash” is very strong.

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:

• Pacing/silence: Jim’s long pause builds gravity and prepares a powerful moral reckoning (five minutes).
• Emotive confession: Direct expression of hurt makes the rebuke compelling and human (my heart wuz mos’ broke).
• Selfless devotion: His care for Huck heightens the sense of betrayal and pain (I didn’ k’yer no’ mo’).
• Moral metaphor/redefinition: Turning physical debris into a judgment on character delivers a stark ethical verdict (trash is what people is).
• Imagery of shame: The act of shaming a friend is condemned plainly and forcefully (puts dirt on de head).
• Controlled delivery/body language: Calm, steady focus conveys dignity and intensifies the impact of his words (looked at me steady).
• Understated exit: Quiet withdrawal underscores the seriousness, leaving Huck to confront his guilt (walked to the wigwam).
• Echo/mirroring: Huck’s remorse mirrors Jim’s earlier gratitude, showing the rebuke’s emotional power (almost kissed his foot).
• Internal conflict and lasting change: Reluctant apology leads to enduring growth, proving the speech’s effect (warn’t ever sorry for it).
• Contrast of play vs pain: Huck’s flippant curiosity is undercut by Jim’s hurt, exposing the “joke” as harmful (tell me all about it).

Question 5 - Mark Scheme

For the Friday briefing email at the distribution depot, staff have been asked to share a short creative piece about night work.

Choose one of the options below for your entry.

• Option A: Describe a warehouse loading bay during a night shift from your imagination. You may choose to use the picture provided for ideas:

• Option B: Write the opening of a story about something going missing at work.

(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 loading bay yawns into the night, a cavern of corrugated shadows and chalky cones of light. Sodium lamps hum like patient wasps, casting a jaundiced glow over stacked pallets: squared ribs, bound tight with glistening film that clings like a second skin. The smell is stubborn and layered—hot rubber, cold metal, a shy trace of coffee—threaded through with that faintly sweet tang of diesel that seems to stain the tongue.

Meanwhile, a forklift nudges forward, amber eyes glowing, its forked teeth slipping beneath a pallet with practiced finesse. The plastic shrieks briefly; then wood shivers, rises. The engine murmurs, then growls; a steady, mechanical breath. Up a fraction, back a hair, align—up, back, align—until the geometry satisfies an unseen standard. Tyres whisper over concrete dust; a reversing beep tiptoes into the air, insistent, metronomic.

Inside the open door, the night hangs just beyond reach, a glossy sheet of ink. Rain, fine as wire, stitches the darkness to the threshold. A lorry broods at the dock, its belly lit in spectral strips, a long black mouth waiting. The driver’s silhouette leans and straightens; vapour rises from his breath like a thought he does not speak. Diesel idles; chains rattle; a ratchet strap clacks with a sound both small and decisive.

Concurrently, people move through this machine-lit theatre with uncompromising purpose. Fluorescent jackets flare and dull as bodies pass beneath the lamps; gloved hands tap barcodes, jerk cords, lift, lower, point. A scanner blinks—red, exact—skimming the inked ribcage of labels; its chirrup cuts the air. Over a radio: a burst of static, then numbers, clipped and tired, yet precise. The supervisor’s clipboard is dog-eared and clean at once, edges frayed like paper snow, columns filled with neat, relentless ticks.

The senses overlap and argue. Pallets scrape; distant music seeps from someone’s pocket, tinny and optimistic, drowned by the staccato clatter of a pallet truck negotiating a ridge. A kettle clicks off in a hut that smells of damp toast. Somewhere, a bolt rolls in a slow circle, conducting its own orbit, shining like a tiny, indifferent star. Grit bites the heel, and the air tastes metallic, as if a coin has been held on the tongue too long.

Beyond, rain accents the roof in syncopated whispers. Water threads along a chain-link fence and falls in dainty beads; the security light flickers—twice, three times—then steadies, resolute. A moth worries at it, frantic for warmth. Inside, heat rises in invisible ladders from the forklift’s bonnet; fingerprints bloom on plastic wrap; breath fogs, dissolves.

It is, perhaps, a beehive of activity—though the metaphor feels too eager. The truth is plainer and more intricate: rhythm and muscle, inventory and patience. Loads cross the bay; numbers become weight; weight becomes space; space becomes relief. The work does not hasten and does not slow; it continues—assuredly, indifferently—until the far edge of morning rubs a paler smudge across the concrete and the bay, finally, remembers it has a horizon.

Option B:

Monday. The time of lanyards and logins; of strip-lights flickering into obedience; of agendas that bristle with bullet points while the day unspools. The office would soon clatter to life—mugs jostling in the sink, printers clearing their throats, conversations warming like engines—but in the records room, for a moment, there was only the patient breath of the air-conditioning and the clean, papery hush that sounded like promise.

Mara turned the key; the lock clicked, small and ceremonial. She flicked the switch; the lights rippled awake in obedient segments. Shelf A, Bay 3, Tier 4: she could have walked there blindfolded. Boxes rose in buff-coloured battalions, their labels meticulous, her own handwriting—narrow, angular—marching along the spines. The Longridge ledger had slumbered here for a century: vellum-soft, its edges foxed, its arithmetic a century-old whisper. Today’s audit would ask it to sit up and speak.

Where it should have been, a rectangle of foam gaped, an immaculate lacuna. The cradle remembered the book’s weight, but the book had vanished. Mara stared; then she smiled, reflexive, the way you smile at a trick you know is not clever. She moved another box aside, crouched, stood, checked Shelf B as if shelves might spontaneously swap identities. Finally, unshowy truth: it was missing.

She hadn’t left in a hurry. She could see her evening distilled in the log: seal checked, seal replaced; signature; time-stamp—19:06. She could see herself in the convex eye of the camera (or had that been last week?): hair pinned, lanyard straight, a competence she wore like armour. She had counted the folios. She had locked the door. And now the piece the whole visit hung upon had simply... absented itself.

Outside, the kettle began its morning monologue, a metallic simmer; somewhere a laugh ricocheted down the corridor. Colleagues would arrive with weather-talk and crumbs; the auditors at nine, punctually merciless. Mara sat on the low stool and ran her thumb along the foam: a fresh tear, finer than a paper-cut. Not clumsy. Deliberate. She looked up at the lens in the corner—an unblinking green dot—and felt her pulse climb her throat like someone late for a train. She reached for the logbook, for evidence; the ruled lines were incorruptible, but they offered no absolution.

Could she have put it in quarantine? In Rare, in Conservation? Memory, that erratic filing clerk, shuffled and failed. She tried to conjure the ledger’s heft, the sour-sweet smell of old glue, the way the pages were a palimpsest of entries and erasures, numbers acquiring a patina of story. Nothing. Only the absence, clean and efficient as a cut. Ben’s footsteps bumbled nearer, keys jangling. Mara closed the cupboard as if closing a wound and, with a steadiness she curated for others, turned to greet the day.

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

Option A:

The loading bay yawns under a strip of sodium light. The concrete is cold enough to bite; our breath hangs like faint steam. Outside, the car park is a dark pane; inside, the air tastes of dust and diesel, a metallic tang that settles on the tongue. Sounds travel further at this hour: the thin beep of a reversing truck, the hydraulic exhale of a dock leveller, the clatter of a loose bolt.

The forklift moves with its own wary grace. An amber beacon rotates, casting a slow circle over shrink-wrap and steel; the mast shudders, the chain ticks, the tines slide forward like careful hands under slatted wood. The driver—hood up, gloves creased—leans into the joystick; he nudges, eases, lifts. Labels flash: Destination: North; Fragile; Do Not Stack. He reverses; the tyres whisper; the warning bleeps count his steps; the pallet rises, squared and centred.

A lorry backs onto the bay, buffers kissing rubber with a dull thud. Hand signals glow—palms open, wrists circling—a language that needs no voice. The shutter rattles up, slat after slat; a rectangle of black becomes a ridged, metal cavern. The dock plate drops with a solemn clang; the way is bridged, and the forklift hums forward into the echo.

Inside the trailer, the world narrows to measurements. A barcode scanner wakes with a red blade; it chirps, records, obeys. We count—forty-eight, ninety-six—packaging scratching at sleeves; straps bite the edges; shrink-wrap gleams like wet fish skin. Someone calls out a bay number; someone else just nods. The radio crackles with clipped codes; a kettle steams; a mug leaves a round stain the colour of old varnish. Breaks are small—heat against knuckles, a mouthful of bitter coffee—then back to it.

The rhythm is mechanical but not careless: in and out, in and out; lift, place, check; lift, place, check. Every inch matters. The floor is a palimpsest of tyre marks and chalk; arrows and yellow lines insist on order. Signs glare from the walls—No Smoking; Keep Clear; High-Vis Must Be Worn—while a lone moth throws itself at the glass.

Hours blur. Night presses its forehead to the doorway, listening. Inside, the bay continues—measured, duty-bound—its own small tide drawing pallets inward, pushing empties out. When a pale seam of morning begins to unpick the car park's edge, the beacon still turns; the last crate is lifted, the last note confirmed. It is ordinary; it is exacting; it is enough.

Option B:

Morning. The time of totals and tiny rituals; the beep of scanners keeping time like patient metronomes; the smell of coffee that has sat too long on a hot plate. In the back office—windowless, softly humming—the safe waited under the desk, squat and compliant, its grey paint scratched by a decade of keys. Routine thrives here: print the float sheets, roll coins, count, sign, lock; a choreography so familiar it becomes almost musical.

When I turned the dial and swung the heavy door, there were the shelves, the ledger, the metal air that tastes faintly of batteries—and the absence. The grey deposit bag, yesterday’s takings tied with a blue cable, was not there. The space it should occupy was as visible as an outline chalked on pavement. For a moment my stomach did a slow, ridiculous tumble. How does something vanish inside a room that never blinks?

The receipt printer in the corner sneezed out a lone slip, as if to clear its throat. I stood with my hand still on the door, its edge pressing a cold line into my palm, listening to the warehouse’s distant beeps and the rattle of a trolley. Tamsin pushed through with her clipboard and her morning voice—half-caffeine, half-command. “Please tell me you’re joking,” she said, then saw my face and didn’t wait for an answer.

“It was here,” I managed, which felt both inadequate and enormous. The words sounded childish, like something a pupil says about a lost homework book. But it was here: at 22:03, I counted; at 22:12, I signed the ledger; at 22:15, I sealed the bag. The cable tie clicked like a handcuff. I can recite it the way I recite the codes that open the shutter: by heart, by habit.

She leaned into the safe, as if authority alone might summon what was missing. The ledger lay open on the middle shelf, my initials a small, black certainty. Numbers glinted in neat columns: tidy, reasonable, trustworthy. “CCTV,” she said, already moving. “Now.”

The monitor in the corner blinked awake. Its red eye had been on all night, watching the silent aisle of bargain biscuits and the row of locked spirits like a sleepless guard. We scrubbed back through monochrome minutes: me sealing the bag; me slipping it onto the shelf; me closing the door. Then static jittered—white snow, a curt interruption—before the picture resumed, normal, nothing happening, nothing wrong. A missing minute. A missing bag. A missing certainty.

Responsibility is loud in a small space. It fills the gaps between words. It sat in my throat as I followed Tamsin down the corridor and into the warehouse. The loading bay door was ajar—only a sliver, a grin of daylight the width of a receipt—but enough to let cold air creep in and worry the edges of cardboard. A white till roll ribbon uncoiled across the floor, pale and aimless, as if pointing to something we could not quite see.

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

Option A:

The loading bay breathes a pale, electric hush. Fluorescent tubes hum overhead, islands of chalk-white light that don't reach the corners. Cold rises through the concrete into my boots. The ribbed shutter is raised halfway, a steel lip dividing inside from the dripping night. An orange forklift idles at that threshold, forks held up like polite hands, exhaust a faint ghost in the chill. Everything feels paused, yet never still.

Then the rhythm begins: beep-beep, the forklift's reverse; the soft chitter of shrink-wrap; a strap ratchets tight; a scanner chirps. Sound skids and returns, ricocheting off corrugated walls. Pallets scrape and sigh; slats complain. Yellow lines are scuffed into pale scars. Coffee fumes, diesel, the clean bite of plastic—these scents knot together. Above, the lights flicker once, as if blinking awake, and the bay answers with movement.

Here, the workers move in measured arcs. Hi-vis vests flare like small suns, then dull when they pass into shadow. Gloves slap wood; barcodes are kissed by red beams; a clipboard rides the supervisor's hip like a shield. Speech is functional, clipped: numbers, dock codes, a place-name mispronounced and corrected. There is humour in it sometimes, but there isn't time for much. Time itself is portioned by the glowing clock: 01:13, 01:22, 01:39—each minute counted in pallets.

Beyond the threshold, night presses its face to the opening; rain needles the yard beneath the floodlamp. Inside, cargo waits: mattresses, appliances, anonymous crates banded in blue. Destinations are stamped in bold capitals: Bristol, Aberdeen, Luton. Each wrapped bundle looks identical, yet each is a promise or a problem, depending on where it will land. The forklift trundles past like a beetle, orange shell shining, and settles another stack with a careful, heavy kiss.

Sometimes I think the building is a lung; it draws in outside air with the opening door and exhales pallet by pallet onto the taut backs of lorries. The roof drums with rain; the place answers with its own small rattles. We keep the cadence: roll, scan, lift, release. Dawn is far away, an idea more than a glow. For now, the bay hums and breathes and works. For now, it simply continues.

Option B:

Monday smelt of lemon polish and burnt coffee—ordinary, reassuring, routine. The museum woke slowly; blinds breathed up; the alarm panel clicked from angry red to a meek green; the air-conditioner began its soft, steady sigh. I walked the galleries with the keys bumping my hip, my steps muffled by the runner laid down the central aisle like a long, grey tongue. Sunlight slid in thin bars across cabinets and labels. The Roman room always looked like a held breath at this hour, glass cases lined like obedient soldiers, every artefact asleep behind their clean, cold walls.

I counted without thinking. Cases: eighteen. Plinths: six. My heartbeats: a little faster than they needed to be. It was the quiet that did it; quiet makes you notice every smudge, every fingerprint, every crooked label. I loved that—order, alignment, certainty.

Case Fourteen was not certain.

The label waited in its neat, serif font: Bronze brooch, c. AD 150. Found near the river bend. Gift of the Cooper family. Its acrylic cradle curved like a small hand. The brooch, which yesterday sat there like an amber eye, was absent. In its place, a pale crescent of undisturbed dust and a tiny thread of felt, snagged and accusatory.

For a second I thought my eyes were playing a trick. I blinked. I crouched so my face met my ghosted reflection; I cupped my hands against the glass. Still nothing. The case was locked—my key turned, the mechanism snicked, everything as it should be, and yet it wasn’t. How do you misplace two thousand years?

I checked the logbook. Security: K.T., 18:02, “All cases secured.” I checked the rota. I checked my bag even though that was ridiculous. The CCTV camera above the arch blinked a little red pulse, almost cheerful. At nine, a school group would swarm in with clipboards and questions; we could not present a missing tooth to thirty curious eleven-year-olds.

“Kelvin?” I called, but the corridor swallowed my voice. The clock over the ticket desk wagged its hands at me, impatient. My palms felt slick; my thoughts hurried. Marianne hated surprises—the late ones most of all—so I had to choose: raise the alarm now, or follow the thread while it was still warm.

I slipped the key back onto the lanyard and listened to the building hum. Somewhere, between the silent glass and the humming kettle, something had moved; someone had moved it. And I, apparently, had a mystery.

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

Option A:

Night presses against the warehouse like a heavy coat; the loading bay yawns open, a mouth of corrugated steel breathing cold air. Pools of sodium light lie on the concrete, pale and unforgiving. A forklift idles in one pool, its shadow stretched thin and strange. The air tastes of diesel and damp cardboard, with a faint sweetness from torn plastic wrap. Outside is almost quiet; inside the noise grows.

Beep-beep-beep: the forklift reverses, its forks lifting, dipping, then lifting again. Hydraulic sighs, a kind of tired breath, slide along the walls. Pallets stand in neat towers, strapped and shrink-wrapped. When the truck cuffs the bay, brakes wheeze and the dock-leveller claps; the floor seems to jump. We shuffle forward in our scuffed boots—gloves on, heads low—so the work keeps moving. Hi-vis jackets flicker like minor constellations. Our breath floats, thin smoke in the strip-lit air.

Senses stack like the pallets themselves: the metallic clatter of cages, the rubbery rasp of tyres, the peppery dust that grits between teeth. Coffee steams from a dented flask; someone laughs, too loud, and the ceiling swallows it. A strip light trembles, blinking—on, off, on—until it finds its nerve. The belt radio crackles with codes we pretend to know. Ratchet straps sing as they tighten; plastic film wraps, wraps, wraps, smooth as thin ice.

Time moves differently here. Minutes come in pallets and paperwork, in signatures and scans. The clock over the door is stubborn, but we pace the night in lanes: up the ramp, down the aisle, back and forth. Outside, the dark is a wall; inside, the bay keeps its ritual rhythm. Another lorry coughs into place. We take the weight together, shoulders braced; the warehouse breathes out, ready for the next shift and the slow crawl towards morning.

Option B:

Monday, 8:42 a.m. Fluorescent lights hummed like tired moths. The printer coughed warm paper. Coffee steamed from mugs, and the carpet held the faint scent of rain on shoes. Screens blinked; the office breathed.

I pushed open my drawer, more out of habit than hope: notebook, a tangle of charger cables, blue pens, the neat manila envelope I labelled on Friday - Pitch, Q3. Inside that envelope should be the small memory stick that had swallowed months of work. My hand skimmed the surface of the envelope. Flat. Too flat.

It was missing. At first I thought I was being dramatic, that my fingers were clumsy, that maybe I had tucked it into the side pocket of my bag. I checked. I checked again, pulling out lip balm, a crumpled receipt, the lonely stapler I always borrow then forget. My heart made a small movement, like a coin dropped into a deep well.

Ten o'clock slid closer on the wall clock; its second hand ticked like a metronome that wouldn't be quiet. The server backup had failed on Friday - of course it had - so the stick wasn't just convenient; it was necessary. Tom's chair squeaked as he leaned back. "Everything okay?" he asked. "Fine," I lied.

Had I left it by the kettle? Near the photocopier? I retraced Friday evening: the rush, the fire alarm test, the cleaner's trolley clattering past. Desk, kitchen, meeting room: nothing. Things on my desk felt wrong, subtly shifted, as if an invisible hand had straightened them but not quite my way. My chair was an inch too low.

There was one problem: the memory stick was gone, and my name glowed on the schedule beside presenting. I could feel the building watching with its fixed, black camera eyes. Someone knew where it went. Maybe it was me. Maybe it wasn't.

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

Option A:

The loading bay sits in a bowl of dim light, a rectangle of tired yellow that spreads across concrete. Fluorescent tubes hum overhead; one flickers like a tired eye. Cold air slips under the half-raised shutter and touches my throat. Pallets are stacked in uneven towers, their plastic wrap stretched and shining, like wet skin. The floor wears a map of black tyre lines and gritty dust. Diesel hangs in the air with the sharp smell of cardboard. Somewhere a radio whispers a song from hours ago. The forklift coughs once, then twice, and its little warning light blinks — orange, patient, patient.

Meanwhile, the driver eases forward, and the forks slide into the crate. Beep-beep, slow and steady, he reverses; the sound bounces around the metal walls. Chains click; labels are scanned; a barcode chirps. This rhythm is methodical, almost gentle. Hands in gloves push, pull, guide. I feel the tremor of the machine through the ground. Beyond the yellow line, a stack leans, then settles. Above us the night presses close, but the bay keeps working, in and out, in and out, crate after crate.

For a moment the engine idles: a thin thread of noise. Dust floats in the light, tiny planets turning. Someone laughs, short and tired, and a flask clicks shut. Then the shutter rattles, the cold rushes back, and we move again. The warehouse breathes — slow, industrial — waiting for dawn.

Option B:

Monday. The fluorescent lights buzzed like bees trapped in glass; keyboards chattered in a plastic rhythm. The air smelled of coffee and printer ink.

I set the silver memory stick on my desk, next to a blue mug that boasted World's Okayest Employee. At ten we were pitching to Halloway Drinks, so I checked the slides, the notes, the handouts; I even whispered my opening line at the blank screen. At 9:42 I walked to the printer and back, a small parade of paper in my arms. The stick should have been there. My stomach tightened like a knot. It wasn't.

It was ridiculous. Things don’t just evaporate; even ideas leave crumbs. Evan bobbed his head to silent music, Liam the new intern looked like he’d swallowed a tie. “Relax, Mia,” Priya said, “it’ll turn up.” The lift doors sighed, people spilled out, Ms Patel’s heels ticked like a metronome across the grey floor.

“Is the deck ready?” she asked.

“Nearly,” I said, and my voice tried to sound like steel.

We searched drawers and bags—under plants, behind monitors. I retraced my steps: past the fridge that hummed, past the noticeboard with its crooked posters. Where did I put it? Did I leave it on the bus; did someone take it?

Ten o’clock crawled closer. The clock on the wall stared, unblinking. Under the cold lights, every desk looked a bit guilty.

Something had gone missing at work, and maybe trust had, too.

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

Option A:

The loading bay sits under tired fluorescent tubes, buzzing like trapped flies. Pale light pools on the concrete and leaves long, smudged shadows behind pallets stacked like blunt towers. The air is chilly and smells of diesel, oil and damp cardboard. Somewhere a chain rattles and the big corrugated shutter breathes in the night. A yellow forklift noses forward, slow and neat, then backs away; beep, beep is its steady cry. The forklift reverses, its beep, beep cuts the quiet, the driver squints into the dark. Only one rule: keep the goods moving.

Meanwhile, people in hi-vis vests move in and out, heads down. Gloves slap wood; tape flickers; a scanner chirps its green approval. The radio crackles—words lost in the echo. Paint flakes from metal posts; the floor is dusted with salt and cardboard crumbs. They go back and forth, back and forth, like a tide of cartons. Outside, the night presses in. A thin draught slides under the door, sneaking round ankles. Then a lorry sighs its brakes and the rhythm starts again. It isn’t quiet, not really; it’s a kind of mechanical lullaby, heavy, necessary.

Option B:

Monday started with the usual hum of the flourescent strip lights and the faint smell of burnt toast from the staff kitchen. Keyboards clicked in a tired rhythm. On the shelf by my desk sat the blue petty-cash tin, always there, neat and square. Everything had a place; everything was safe.

The place was empty.

At first I laughed, a short, nervous puff. Maybe I had moved it, absent-minded, when I filed the invoices. I opened every drawer. I checked under the swivel chair. I even peered into the bin, as if money would hide there like a shy mouse.

Nothing.

Heat crawled up my neck. Mr Patel would be back from the meeting at nine, and he always asked for the float first. “Count it for me, please,” he said, every morning. How could I count air? The clock on the wall ticked louder, like it enjoyed it.

“Has anyone seen the cash tin?” I called, trying to sound casual, like this was normal. Liam shrugged without looking up; headphones in, eyes on his screen. Sarah gave me a tight smile. New people had started this week—new names, new coats on the stand, new chances for things to go wrong.

I checked again. And again. And again.

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

Option A:

The loading bay is dark. Only a few yellow lights are on. They buzz. They look tired. The floor is cold and hard, with a wet mark. Shadows sit under the pallets. A fork lift waits. Its nose is up like a dog. The air smells of oil and dust.

A truck backs in slow. Beep beep beep the sound is loud and it keeps going. The door rolls up slow and shakes. Cold air slides across my arms, I pull my jacket. The driver on the fork lift leans forward, he is tired, the orange light spins round and round.

He lifts the pallet and the wood creaks. The forks scrape and hiss. Back and forward, back and forward, it goes into the truck.

A chain clanks. Someone coughs. Time feels stuck here. I hear the radio, just a small song. The night does not end, not yet.

Option B:

Monday. The time of new emails, mugs of tea, bright lights humming over our heads. The carpet smells of lemon, the clock blinks. We start again.

As the kettle hissed I pulled my drawer, the top one, the petty cash tin should be there. It wasn't. I stared at the plain grey box space. My stomach dropped like a stone in water. I checked again. Drawer after drawer, bag after bag, tapping pockets that was empty. The lid, the coins, the little book with notes, it was all gone.

Me and Jay was on early shift. The boss, Mr Carter, he dont like trouble. He will shout, I know it. Who took it? Who... I ain't touched it. I look at the door, the corridor looks long and thin.

I listen to the printer cough again and the air feels even colder.

A light flickers and a chair creaks, like the building is whispering about me.

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

Option A:

Cold air in the bay. Lights buzz and flick. The forklift beeps and the forks scrape the floor. I watch the pallets sit like blocks, they look the same and gray. A man in a jacket yawns, he drags a pallet and the tape is loud, rip rip rip. The smell is oil and dust and wet wood from the rain. My boots feel heavy. We move boxes, back and forward, back and forward, it never stops. In the dark corner a cat runs away, I think. A truck door slam and the echo go long. The night is long too.

Option B:

It’s Monday at work and the blue folder is gone. I look on the desk. It is not there. My boss says where is it and he looks at me hard, I dont know. I feel hot like the room is too small. Sam says maybe you left it on the bus. I spill my tea and it runs like a river. Me and Sam was looking under the printer we look in the cupboard and I check my bag. I think about lunch, I am hungry and the clock is slow. The folder was there yesterday, it had numbers and a red note. Gone, gone.