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).

• After the Dodger gives an item to Charley Bates, which pair runs away together?: The Dodger and Charley Bates – 1 mark
• Who drew the handkerchief from the old gentleman’s pocket?: the Dodger – 1 mark
• What does the Dodger take from the old gentleman and pass to Charley Bates?: A handkerchief – 1 mark
• Who ran away round the corner at full speed?: the Dodger and Charley Bates – 1 mark

Question 2 - Mark Scheme

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

6 In an instant the whole mystery of the hankerchiefs, and the watches, and the jewels, and the Jew, rushed upon the boy’s mind. He stood, for a moment, with the blood so tingling through all his veins from

11 terror, that he felt as if he were in a burning fire; then, confused and frightened, he took to his heels; and, not knowing what he did, made off as fast as he could lay his feet to the ground. This was all done in a minute’s space. In the very instant when Oliver began

How does the writer use language here to show Oliver’s shock and fear? 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: Level 4 responses perceptively analyse how Dickens conveys Oliver’s shock through the polysyndetic list 'the hankerchiefs, and the watches, and the jewels, and the Jew', culminating in the personified revelation 'rushed upon the boy’s mind', and through visceral imagery like 'blood so tingling through all his veins' and the simile 'as if he were in a burning fire'. They also link idiom and structure to effect, noting instinctive flight in 'took to his heels', 'as fast as he could lay his feet to the ground' and 'not knowing what he did', reinforced by urgent temporal markers 'In an instant'/'This was all done in a minute’s space' and breathless, multi-clause syntax that mirrors overwhelming, immediate fear.

The writer initially personifies the revelation: "the whole mystery... rushed upon the boy’s mind." The temporal marker "In an instant" foregrounds suddenness. The abstract "mystery" becomes a physical assailant, showing shock as an attack. The polysyndetic list "the hankerchiefs, and the watches, and the jewels, and the Jew" builds with repeated "and", mirroring the surge of realisation. Ending on "the Jew" gives the list a human centre, sharpening danger. The dynamic verb "rushed" conveys speed, plunging the reader into Oliver’s panic.

Moreover, the writer turns shock into bodily sensation through visceral imagery: "the blood... tingling through all his veins from terror." The hyperbolic "all" and tactile "tingling" make fear somatic, suggesting loss of control. The simile "as if he were in a burning fire" intensifies this, fusing emotion with searing pain. Fricative alliteration in "felt... fire" hisses with heat, while the abstract noun "terror" anchors the extremity. This thermal imagery renders his fear immediate, so the reader feels its sting with him.

Furthermore, syntax and idiom convey frantic flight. The multi-clause sentence, "then, confused and frightened, he took to his heels; and, not knowing what he did, made off..." mimics breathless motion and foregrounds paralysis with doubled adjectives "confused and frightened". The idiom "took to his heels" suggests instinct, while "as fast as he could lay his feet to the ground" exaggerates speed. The simple sentence "This was all done in a minute’s space" compresses time, and the echo "In the very instant" repeats immediacy, crystallising his shock and fear.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Shows clear understanding; explains effects; relevant detail; clear and accurate terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer uses urgent time markers and dynamic verbs like In an instant, rushed upon the boy’s mind, took to his heels, and made off as fast as he could to show Oliver’s sudden shock and panic, while the overwhelming list the hankerchiefs... the watches... the jewels... the Jew suggests his realisation hits all at once. Sensory and metaphorical imagery—the blood so tingling and as if he were in a burning fire—together with the short sentence This was all done in a minute’s space emphasise the intensity of his fear and the rapid pace of events.

The writer immediately presents Oliver’s shock through the temporal adverbial “In an instant” and the metaphor “the whole mystery … rushed upon the boy’s mind.” The polysyndetic list “the hankerchiefs, and the watches, and the jewels, and the Jew” piles up details, mimicking a flood of thoughts and overwhelming the reader. Personifying the revelation as something that “rushed” at him highlights how sudden and uncontrollable his realisation is.

Moreover, visceral, tactile imagery shows fear gripping his body: “the blood so tingling through all his veins from terror.” The simile “as if he were in a burning fire” is hyperbolic, intensifying his panic. The paired adjectives “confused and frightened” show disorientation, while the dynamic idiom “took to his heels” and the verb phrase “made off as fast as he could” present an instinctive flight response.

Additionally, sentence forms amplify his fear. The long multi-clause sentence with semicolons creates a breathless rhythm, while the short declarative “This was all done in a minute’s space” compresses time and stresses speed. Repetition of “instant” in “In the very instant” reinforces immediacy, and “not knowing what he did” shows loss of control. Altogether, these choices convey Oliver’s shock and fear and build urgency.

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 Oliver’s sudden shock with time words like 'In an instant', powerful verb choices like 'rushed upon the boy’s mind', and the short sentence 'This was all done in a minute’s space' to show how quickly everything happens. His fear is clear in the simile 'as if he were in a burning fire', while the list 'the hankerchiefs, and the watches, and the jewels, and the Jew' and action phrases 'took to his heels' and 'made off as fast as he could lay his feet to the ground' suggest confusion and panicked running.

The writer uses personification and time phrases to show Oliver’s shock. The phrase “In an instant” and “the whole mystery … rushed upon the boy’s mind” make it feel sudden and overwhelming, as if the truth attacks him. The list “the handkerchiefs, and the watches, and the jewels, and the Jew,” with repeated “and,” builds his confusion.

Furthermore, a simile shows his fear: he feels “as if he were in a burning fire.” This and the image of “blood … tingling through all his veins” suggest pain and panic in his body.

Additionally, the words “confused and frightened” state his fear clearly, while “took to his heels” and “as fast as he could lay his feet to the ground” show he runs away quickly. The short sentence “This was all done in a minute’s space” emphasises the speed and shock.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple comment; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer uses emotive words like 'terror' and a comparison 'as if he were in a burning fire' to show Oliver is very scared. The phrase 'In an instant' and the short sentence 'This was all done in a minute’s space.' make his shock and running away ('took to his heels') seem sudden.

The writer uses a simile to show Oliver’s shock and fear. The simile “as if he were in a burning fire” makes his terror seem very strong. Moreover, the adjectives “confused and frightened” tell the reader he is scared. Furthermore, the verb “rushed” and the phrase “In an instant” show how suddenly everything hits him. Additionally, the short sentence “This was all done in a minute’s space” shows the speed. Finally, the phrase “took to his heels” shows he runs away because he is afraid.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Polysyndetic listing piles up details to mirror his sudden, overwhelming realisation and panic (and the jewels, and the Jew)
• Dynamic verb choice shows the revelation hitting him with unstoppable force (rushed upon the boy’s mind)
• Visceral physiological imagery makes fear tangible in his body (blood so tingling)
• Intense simile amplifies the extremity of his fear, as if in physical agony (in a burning fire)
• Emotive pairing labels his mental state directly and starkly (confused and frightened)
• Idiomatic phrasing for running conveys instinctive, panicked flight (took to his heels)
• Hyperbolic pace stresses desperate urgency to escape (as fast as he could)
• Loss-of-agency phrasing captures disorientation and shock-induced automatism (not knowing what he did)
• Contrast of a breathless multi-clause build with a clipped summary compresses time and heightens urgency (a minute’s space)
• Unfinished subordinate clause suspends the action at peak tension, sustaining shock and fear (In the very instant)

Question 3 - Mark Scheme

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

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

You could write about:

• how anticipation builds from beginning to end
• 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 track whole-text escalation: beginning in medias res with Oliver’s 'horror and alarm', pivoting at 'In the very instant' into a widening pursuit where the repeated cry 'Stop thief! Stop thief!', cumulative listing ('the tradesman... the baker... the milkman') and asyndetic triplet 'pell-mell, helter-skelter, slap-dash' accelerate pace before a zoom-in return to Oliver 'covered with mud and dust'. It would also analyse shifts in tone and perspective—the narrator’s generalisation 'There is a passion for hunting' suspending action, then the abrupt climax 'Stopped at last!' and delayed resolution as the 'police officer' 'seized Oliver' despite his plea 'It wasn’t me... two other boys'—to show how misdirection, dramatic irony and delay sustain anticipation.

One way in which the writer has structured the text to create anticipation is through an in medias res opening and compressed temporal references that accelerate pace. We are thrust into the transgression—“to see the Dodger plunge his hand…”—then time is telescoped by “In an instant”, “a minute’s space”, and “In the very instant…”. A pivotal misrecognition follows as the old gentleman, seeing Oliver run, cries “Stop thief!” The initial internal focalisation on Oliver’s “horror and alarm” yields to an externalised pursuit, and the dramatic irony of his innocence intensifies anticipation about whether truth will surface before the mob closes in.

In addition, Dickens widens the lens through cumulative listing and anaphora, turning private theft into public spectacle. The refrain “Stop thief! Stop thief!” acts as a structural chorus, punctuating stages of the chase. Asyndetic catalogues—“the tradesman…; the butcher…; the baker…”—and paratactic triads “pell-mell, helter-skelter, slap-dash” create a breathless crescendo, while a brief generalisation, “There is a passion for hunting…”, zooms out before a sharp re-focus on “One wretched breathless child,” sharpening anticipatory dread.

A further structural feature is the modulation of pace at the climax and aftermath. Staccato exclamatives—“Stopped at last! A clever blow.”—interrupt the rush, then direct speech slows events: “Stand aside!” “Poor fellow!” This shift delays resolution as competing voices contest blame. The ironic parenthesis that the officer “is generally the last person to arrive” engineers anticlimax, and Oliver’s final plea—“It wasn’t me indeed”—withholds closure, a deliberate cliff-hanger.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Explains effects; relevant examples; clear terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 3 response would explain that anticipation builds from the opening shock of Oliver seeing the Dodger "plunge his hand" into the pocket, through compressed time ("In an instant", "This was all done in a minute’s space") and a widening focus driven by the repeated "Stop thief!" and breathless list "Away they run, pell-mell, helter-skelter", which quickens pace and spreads the chase to "the crowd". It would also note the structural climax "Stopped at last!" and the final shift to dialogue and the "police officer" who "seized Oliver by the collar", momentarily resolving the action while sustaining suspense about the mistaken guilt and what follows.

One way the writer structures the text to create anticipation is by beginning in medias res and keeping a tight focus on Oliver’s viewpoint. We start with his “horror and alarm” as he sees the theft, then the focus shifts immediately to the old gentleman “missing his handkerchief” and misreading Oliver’s flight. This rapid shift in focus, reinforced by temporal markers like “In an instant” and “in the very instant,” accelerates the pace and sets up the key question: will Oliver be caught and blamed?

In addition, anticipation escalates as the narrative widens from three boys to the whole street. The repeated refrain “Stop thief! Stop thief!” functions as a structural motif, and the cumulative listing of onlookers (“the tradesman… the butcher… the baker…”) shows an ever-growing crowd. This zooming out, along with asyndetic, dynamic verbs (“tearing, yelling, screaming”), creates momentum and a rising tide of pursuit, intensifying the reader’s suspense.

A further structural choice is the clear turning point followed by delayed resolution. Short sentences—“Stopped at last! A clever blow.”—signal the climax, then the focus contracts back to Oliver “covered with mud,” and a chorus of fragmented dialogue keeps judgment uncertain. The parenthetical aside about the policeman “generally the last” arriving prolongs the outcome, and ending on Oliver’s plea (“It wasn’t me… two other boys”) leaves a cliff-hanger that sustains anticipation beyond the extract.

Level 2 (Some understanding and comment) – 3–4 marks Attempts to comment; some examples; some terminology. Indicative Standard: Anticipation builds from Oliver’s shock at plunge his hand and the boys running away into a widening chase: the repeated Stop thief! Stop thief!, the growing list (the butcher, the baker, the milkman) and the shift to the crowd (the cry is taken up by a hundred voices) speed the action. Finally, short, abrupt lines like Stopped at last! and A clever blow. make the capture feel sudden and keep the reader tense.

One way the writer creates anticipation at the beginning is by shifting quickly from Oliver seeing the theft to the chase. Temporal phrases, “In an instant” and “a minute’s space”, speed time and make us expect the chase. The shout “Stop thief!” starts the action and builds tension.

In addition, in the middle the writer uses repetition and listing. The cry “Stop thief! Stop thief!” is repeated, and a long list of people join (“the butcher... the baker...”), so the crowd grows. This quickens the pace and makes the reader wonder if Oliver will escape.

A further feature is the ending, which is a sudden climax. Short sentences like “Stopped at last! A clever blow.” make a sharp stop. Then the focus shifts to dialogue and the policeman arriving, leaving us anticipating whether anyone will believe Oliver.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: At the start, Oliver’s shock at the theft ("plunge his hand") is followed by the repetition of "Stop thief! Stop thief!" and a long list of people joining ("the butcher throws down his tray; the baker his basket; the milkman his pail"), which makes the chase feel faster and builds anticipation. At the end there’s a change to "Stopped at last!" and the crowd "eagerly gather round him", so we anticipate what will happen to Oliver.

One way in which the writer has structured the text to create anticipation is by starting with Oliver seeing the theft, then quickly shifting to him running. This shift makes us wonder what happens next.

In addition, the repetition of “Stop thief!” and the list of people joining the chase build pace. The structure moves from one to many voices, making us read on.

A further structural feature is the ending where Oliver is stopped and the police arrive. This climax and final dialogue create simple suspense about what will happen to him.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• In medias res opening at the theft propels immediate action and primes tension (plunge his hand)
• Compressed chronology with urgent time markers quickens pace and builds breathless anticipation (In an instant)
• Dramatic irony in misidentification creates dread as the innocent is pursued (scudding away)
• Refrain of the communal cry acts as a structural chorus, escalating momentum and inevitability (Stop thief! Stop thief!)
• Cumulative listing and parallel syntax expand the scale of pursuit, amplifying stakes at each turn (the milkman his pail)
• Shift from panoramic mob to close-up of Oliver intensifies empathy and fear of capture (One wretched breathless child)
• Present-tense bursts and dynamic verb strings give live immediacy, sustaining anticipation through constant motion (up go the windows)
• Clipped exclamatives at the turning point deliver shock and speed, snapping the build-up into climax (Stopped at last!)
• Polyphonic snatches of crowd dialogue delay resolution and keep outcome uncertain (Is this the boy)
• Belated arrival of authority reverses hope and propels anticipation toward consequences beyond the scene (seized Oliver by the collar)

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, the way the whole crowd joins the chase after Oliver could be seen as exciting. The writer suggests that this is actually showing how easily ordinary people can turn into a cruel and mindless mob.

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

In your response, you could:

• consider your impressions of the crowd of people chasing Oliver
• comment on the methods the writer uses to portray the crowd as a mob
• support your response with references to the text. [20 marks]

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

Evaluate texts critically and support with appropriate textual references.

Level 4 (Perceptive, detailed evaluation) – 16–20 marks Perceptive ideas; perceptive methods; critical detail on impact; judicious detail. Indicative Standard: A Level 4 response would argue that, although the chase is breathlessly exciting, Dickens critiques the crowd’s herd mentality through anaphoric refrain (Stop thief! Stop thief!), cumulative listing (the butcher throws down his tray; the baker his basket; the milkman his pail) and the frenetic tricolon (pell-mell, helter-skelter, slap-dash). It would evaluate the writer’s viewpoint as satirical and condemnatory, highlighting narratorial asides (There is a magic in the sound; There is a passion for hunting) and the crowd’s relish in cruelty (hail his decreasing strength with joy, A clever blow, the lubberly fellow seeking reward) to show how ordinary people become a cruel, unthinking mob.

I largely agree with the statement. Dickens initially orchestrates the chase so it feels exhilarating, but he simultaneously exposes how suggestible, “ordinary” people can be co-opted into a cruel, unthinking mob.

At first, the thrill is unmistakable. The anaphoric refrain “Stop thief! Stop thief!” is described as having “magic,” a metaphor that suggests an almost spell-like compulsion. Dickens reinforces this contagion through an accumulative, parallel list: “The tradesman… the car-man… the butcher… the baker… the milkman…,” each clause mirroring the last. This paratactic, semi‑colon‑spliced catalogue, combined with dynamic present participles—“tearing, yelling, screaming”—creates a breathless pace. Hyphenated compounds like “pell-mell, helter-skelter, slap-dash” mimic the tumbling momentum, while aural imagery—“streets, squares, and courts, re-echo”—turns the city into a sounding board for the cry. Structurally, the scene escalates: “a hundred voices,” “the crowd accumulate,” “up go the windows, out run the people, onward bear the mob.” This tricolon with inverted syntax propels the action forward, making the chase feel irresistibly exciting.

However, Dickens pointedly reframes the excitement as mob cruelty. His narratorial intrusion—“There is a passion for hunting… implanted in the human breast”—shifts the semantic field to bloodsport, recasting the crowd as a pack. The camera then zooms onto “one wretched breathless child,” and visceral detail—“terror in his looks; agony in his eyes; large drops of perspiration”—elicits pathos. The crowd’s response is chilling: they “hail his decreasing strength with joy.” The exclamation “Ay, stop him for God’s sake, were it only in mercy!” is bitterly ironic, exposing a pious veneer over violence. Short, staccato sentences—“A clever blow. He is down”—deliver the impact brutally, reducing Oliver to an object. The mob “eagerly gather,” “jostling and struggling,” like spectators at a spectacle; Dickens had already hinted at this theatricality when “a whole audience desert Punch,” abandoning harmless entertainment to indulge in a real-life hunt.

In the aftermath, the mob’s mindlessness and opportunism sharpen Dickens’s critique. The polyphony of direct speech—“Stand aside!” “Give him a little air!” “Nonsense! he don’t deserve it.”—reveals contradictory, thoughtless voices. The epithet “a great lubberly fellow” caricatures the man angling for reward, while the crowd’s sneer—“Afraid!… That’s a good ’un!”—drowns the gentleman’s tentative compassion. Even authority is satirised: the parenthetical aside that the policeman is “generally the last person to arrive” undercuts trust, and his rough imperative—“Come, get up”—institutionalises the mob’s prejudice, despite Oliver’s desperate plea, “Indeed, indeed…,” and his supplicatory gesture, “clasping his hands.”

Overall, although the chase is deliberately exciting, Dickens uses that very exhilaration to implicate and then indict the crowd’s transformation into a cruel, mindless mob. I strongly agree with the statement.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant evaluation) – 11–15 marks Clear ideas; clear methods; clear evaluation of impact; relevant references. Indicative Standard: Typically, a Level 3 response would mostly agree that the writer warns how ordinary people become a mob, showing that the repeated cry Stop thief! Stop thief! and the breathless pell-mell, helter-skelter, slap-dash make the chase exciting while There is a magic in the sound turns them into a mob that is tearing, yelling, screaming. It would also note the moral judgement in There is a passion for hunting and the cruelty in hail his decreasing strength with joy and Nonsense! he don't deserve it, balancing thrill with criticism.

I mostly agree with the statement. Although the chase is presented with pace and energy that could feel exciting, Dickens uses language and structure to expose how quickly ordinary people are swept into a cruel, mindless mob.

At first, the scene is exhilarating. The simile “away he went like the wind” launches the pursuit, and the anaphora and exclamatory imperative “Stop thief! Stop thief!” create urgency. The cumulative list of ordinary roles — “the butcher… the baker… the milkman… the school-boy” — shows how everyday people abandon their tasks to join in. Hyphenated, rapid-fire triplets like “pell-mell, helter-skelter, slap-dash,” along with dynamic verbs (“tearing, yelling, screaming”), heighten the breathless pace. Even the personification that “streets, squares, and courts, re-echo with the sound” suggests a city electrified by the cry. Structurally, the repetition of the call and the crowd “accumulate at every turning” builds momentum and a sense of spectacle.

However, Dickens undercuts the excitement to critique mob mentality. He explicitly labels them “the mob,” and the generalisation “There is a passion for hunting… implanted in the human breast” implies an instinctive, unthinking drive. The narrative then zooms in on Oliver as “one wretched breathless child… terror in his looks; agony in his eyes,” using emotive imagery to evoke sympathy while revealing the crowd’s cruelty: they “hail his decreasing strength with joy.” After the “clever blow,” the asyndetic list “jostling and struggling” shows frenzied spectatorship. Fragmented dialogue exposes their mindlessness and contradiction: “Give him a little air!” versus “Nonsense! he don’t deserve it.” The “great lubberly fellow” boasts “I stopped him, sir,” expecting reward, and the officer “seized Oliver… roughly,” while the crowd sneers at the gentleman’s doubt — “‘Afraid!’… ‘That’s a good ’un!’” — dismissing compassion.

Overall, Dickens crafts the chase to feel thrilling, but he ultimately condemns how a contagious cry turns decent people into a vindictive crowd. The scene’s pace entices us, yet its imagery, repetition and dialogue reveal the alarming ease with which excitement slides into cruelty.

Level 2 (Some evaluation) – 6–10 marks Some understanding; some methods; some evaluative comments; some references. Indicative Standard: A Level 2 response would mostly agree with the writer’s viewpoint that the exciting chase shows ordinary people quickly becoming a mindless mob. It would use simple examples like the repetition "Stop thief! Stop thief!", the chaotic "pell-mell, helter-skelter, slap-dash", and the cruel remark "Nonsense! he don’t deserve it" to show excitement turning into harsh crowd behaviour.

I mostly agree: at first the chase seems exciting, but the writer mainly shows how easily ordinary people become a cruel, mindless mob.

At the start, the pace is very fast. Oliver runs “like the wind” and the repeated cry “Stop thief! Stop thief!” creates urgency. The narrator calls it “magic,” and a long list shows everyone dropping what they are doing: “the butcher,” “the baker.” The vivid verbs “tearing, yelling, screaming” and the triple “pell-mell, helter-skelter, slap-dash” make the scene feel breathless and exciting.

However, the writer then suggests this excitement is dangerous. Emotive language presents Oliver as a victim: “One wretched breathless child… terror in his looks; agony in his eyes.” The generalisation “There is a passion for hunting… in the human breast” implies the crowd enjoys the chase; they “hail his decreasing strength with joy,” which shows cruelty. After a “clever blow” he is down, the crowd “eagerly gather,” jostling to stare, and the dialogue “Nonsense! he don’t deserve it” shows a lack of mercy. A “great lubberly fellow” boasts, expecting payment, and even the policeman arrives late and “seized Oliver by the collar,” being rough despite the boy’s plea.

Overall, I largely agree: the writer uses repetition, lists and emotive detail to create energy but mostly criticises how ordinary people quickly become a harsh mob.

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 the writer shows ordinary people quickly becoming a cruel mob, citing the repeated cry "Stop thief! Stop thief!", the growing crowd "the cry is taken up by a hundred voices", and even "onward bear the mob". It might also notice the cruelty in "they hail his decreasing strength with joy" and "he don’t deserve it", showing basic awareness of the writer’s viewpoint.

I mostly agree: the chase seems exciting, but the writer shows ordinary people quickly turning into a cruel, mindless mob.

At the start, the writer makes it exciting. The repetition of “Stop thief! Stop thief!” and the list, “the butcher… the baker… the milkman,” show everyone rushing out. Action words like “tearing, yelling, screaming,” and “pell-mell, helter-skelter” create a fast pace. This makes the chase sound noisy and exciting.

However, the crowd seems mindless and cruel. “There is a magic in the sound” suggests people follow without thinking. They have “a passion for hunting,” and “hail his decreasing strength with joy,” which is cruel to “one wretched breathless child.” When Oliver is “bleeding from the mouth,” the crowd still crushes round, saying “Give him a little air!” then “Nonsense! he don’t deserve it.” The “lubberly fellow” expects a reward, and the officer “seized Oliver by the collar,” which adds to the harsh tone.

Overall, I agree that the exciting chase really shows how a crowd can become a cruel mob, using repetition, lists and dialogue.

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:

• Sardonic irony: pretends civic duty to expose hypocrisy (like good citizens)
• Anaphora of the alarm: generates thrilling urgency while revealing mindless echo-chamber (Stop thief!)
• Cumulative list of occupations abandoning posts: shows contagion as ordinary people drop responsibility (leaves his counter)
• Breathless tricolon and colloquial rhythm: creates exhilarating chaos that dehumanises the crowd (pell-mell, helter-skelter)
• Authorial aphorism on human nature: reframes the chase as primal bloodlust, not justice (passion for hunting)
• Pathos-laden focus on the victim: shifts perspective to highlight cruelty toward a vulnerable boy (wretched breathless child)
• Juxtaposition of suffering and glee: indicts the mob’s moral numbness as they celebrate his weakness (hail his decreasing strength)
• Clashing shouts in reported dialogue: exposes mob contradictions and quick slide to cruelty (don’t deserve it)
• Boastful self-incrimination by the assailant: shows violence rewarded by expectation of praise or payment (I stopped him)
• Hyperbolic spectacle of collective desertion: satirises how entertainment turns to persecution en masse (desert Punch)

Question 5 - Mark Scheme

A science journal for young people is collecting creative pieces about what future cities might be like.

Choose one of the options below for your entry.

• Option A: Describe a vertical farm inside a skyscraper from your imagination. You may choose to use the picture provided for ideas:

• Option B: Write the opening of a story about a memory that technology says is false.

(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:

Light hangs in the air like diluted honey, suspended between glass and leaf. Storeys upon storeys of greenery ascend through the atrium, a helical garden turning softly around a spine of steel. Every tier is a balcony of chlorophyll: trays tessellated into neat mosaics, drips caught before they dare to fall, roots ghost-pale and drinking from silvered vapour. The building exhales—cool, clean; it inhales again, patient as tide. Outside, the city frets in fumes and horns; inside, the light is curated, pink and cerulean, a gentle dusk at noon.

Beneath the LEDs, leaves preen. Butterhead rosettes curl like careful palms; basil offers a peppered sweetness; lacy kale frills tremble when the fans turn. Overhead, pipes as slender as veins thread between racks, pulsing with nutrient; at intervals, a fine mist hovers (minute pearls, a constellation) before vanishing. It is almost silent. Almost: there is the susurration of air through ducting; a micro-drone’s soft whirr as it noses along a row; a slow tick, tick as sensors take the pulse of this skyborne field. If you listen long enough, the rhythm becomes persuasive, hypnotic.

On the narrow gantries, technicians move with practised grace, white boots whispering on gridded metal, gloved hands lifting a leaf, scanning a barcode, annotating quietly. Their faces are lit from below by magenta; their eyes catch flecks of verdant light. Visitors drift behind the glass like thoughtful fish, nostrils flaring at the clean, damp smell: a blend of crushed stem, clean water, an almost metallic brightness that tastes like rain. A child presses both palms to the pane; her breath clouds; she draws a small heart and forgets it as an automated cradle slides past bearing strawberries—winter, and yet the strawberries are here, brazen as summer. Meanwhile, on a lower floor, a row of sunflowers lifts its golden circles towards nothing but diodes; nevertheless, they lift.

Upward, upward, upwards—the garden climbs. Between bays, slender ladders promise vertigo; across shafts, catwalks are flung like ribbons. Nothing is random; everything is orchestrated: delivery, drainage, light. Tubes loop and return in impeccable curves, a calligraphy of necessity; reservoirs underfoot mirror the ceiling’s grid, making the whole place seem deeper than it is. And yet, for all the system, for all the metrics and pristine trays, a wildness persists. A tendril keeps reaching for whatever is beyond the rail. A drop escapes and lands on my wrist—cold, mineral, certain.

Far below, roads mesh; far above, cloud meets glass. Here, the building holds its own weather, its own seasons, its own harvests, each layer a discrete climate. It is a cathedral of chlorophyll, perhaps a touch too reverent, perhaps too clinical; still, it feeds the city. I step back from the viewing panel, blinking. The after-image lingers: pink halos; white breath; the continuing, generous green.

Option B:

Memory. The treacherous librarian of the mind; shelves stacked with sugar-paper afternoons, dog-eared faces, and the clean, mineral scent of rain waiting just beyond the door. Once, we let it arrange itself; now, we let technology patrol the aisles, scan the spines, and stamp a verdict in indelible blue.

The Verifier blinked—courteous, clinical—and its verdict slid across the polished screen: memory flagged; false. As if saltwater could be misremembered.

Yet I can taste it still. That afternoon the tide climbed our stone steps like a shy cat, paw by careful paw. The porch boards darkened as they drank; the air bruised with iodine. Gulls stitched white commas across a sky as pale as washed linen. Mother stood in the doorway with a red scarf looped casually around her throat, laughing that bright, unrepeatable laugh that rose and cascaded like water on slate. “Only to the second stair,” she warned the sea, as if it would listen. Inside, the kettle babbled; the radio burred; my socks wicked cold through to my bones. I pressed my palms to the flaking paint of the banister and felt it grainy, chalk dust catching under my nails. The memory glows, inconveniently, like a coal you cannot pinch out.

However, statistics prefer ice to fire. On the same date—15:04:23, if you must know—the WeatherNet recorded no surge, none at all; the coastal sensors registered a polite, unremarkable sea. The municipal archive insists the pier had been dismantled three years earlier, so where did those black posts hunching in the tide come from? Mother’s workplace logs her in, retinas scanned, from noon until six; the procurement ledger shows no red scarf purchased in the last five years; the house plan lists no porch at all before the extension. My inbox hums with advisories: confabulation common; sleep consolidation errors; refrain from reinforcing this artifact.

And yet—how do you misremember a splinter? How do you fabricate the wet-dog smell of wool steaming near the radiator, the metallic tang of a kettle just boiled, the ridiculous certainty that the sea understands a warning delivered in ordinary language? Even so, I grant that something tilts; the porch might have been the older one, the scarf rose not red, the gulls less articulate than I painted them. But the flood itself? It insists, stubborn as rust.

Meanwhile, the Verifier waits on the desk like an obedient conscience. The little blue indicator smiles; the machine is not malicious, only sure. Perhaps that is what stings: its assurance against my own. Friends advise pragmatic erasure—“If it didn’t happen, let it go”—as if memory were a receipt you can crumple and bin.

Consequently, I pack a bag with ordinary things—my coat, a thermos, an umbrella that sticks—and slip the Verifier into the pocket like a stone. The tide charts promise nothing unusual; the forecast is beige. Still, I will go to the seawall at the hour the screen denies, and I will stand with my shoes on the first step, then the second, and listen. If the water keeps its distance, the machine will be vindicated; if it does not, I will come home salted and unapologetic.

In the hallway, the paint flakes under my thumb. I lift it to my tongue. Chalk, dust, a whisper of old storms—almost nothing, almost everything.

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

Option A:

Light does not pour here; it hums. A pale, even glow drifts from laddered strips of LEDs, saturating leaves with a cold dawn that never ends. Within the glass ribs of the tower, lettuces—small moons in their trays—float on rafts, roots combing silver water. The air is cool (filtered and slightly medicinal); it carries coriander, wet metal, and the faint sweetness of something newly cut. Fans thrum beneath the walkway; pumps coax the nutrient broth through capillaries; above, droplets stipple the undersides of leaves.

Everything is arranged vertically. Rack upon rack; tier upon tier; an orchard turned upright. Aluminium lattices climb past my shoulders and out of sight, bearing ladders of green: basil in thick, fragrant frills; butterhead lettuces like folded roses; kale with stubborn, blue-green ruffles. Mist sways in fine veils; pipes release a timed sigh; then the measured music begins again—drip, drip, drip—an engineered rain that goes up as well as down. The rhythm is precise, almost too precise to be natural, yet it lulls the mind.

Concurrently, along the slender catwalk, technicians merge with curious guests, one tapping figures into a tablet while another points, delighted, at a strawberry blushing like a lamp. The click-clack of safety shoes ricochets off the steel; a voice murmurs through a headset to a colleague on the level above; numbers are exchanged, temperatures adjusted, trays nudged along their quiet conveyor. No one shouts; instructions are economical, clipped, and calm. If someone laughs, it is quickly swallowed by the soft machinery.

A small drone dithers between flowers, its rotors whispering apologies as it fusses pollen from bloom to bloom; a bee might have been better, but this place prefers certainty. Condensation beads along the clear tubing like necklaces on a careful throat, then finds its way, obediently, back into the sum of the system. Through the panes, the city flickers: traffic stipples the avenues; a train sketches a bright ribbon; far sirens drag their thin, red voices across the afternoon. Here, though, the seasons are archived—winter for the lettuces, perpetual spring for the tomatoes—and weather is a programme, not a mood.

There is an odd, persuasive beauty in the precision. It should feel sterile, a clinic for chlorophyll; instead, the place behaves almost kindly. Plants lean into their allotted light and drink their measured water; they do not need soil and yet seem grounded, somehow, by the human intent that arranged them. The tower, all glass and willpower, is a greenhouse turned skyscraper turned granary. It grows upwards what the city cannot spread sideways: a stacked field, a vertical meadow, a quiet factory of food. Outside, the sky darkens; inside, the harvest does not.

Option B:

Memory is a house with doors that stick; technology arrives with a master key and a polite smile. Recall—the app that hums on my wrist like a tame bee—likes to tell me which rooms I never entered. Today, as the kettle burbles and the morning is pearled with rain, it informs me that the pier I remember—a splintered spine of wood, a strip of arcades and vinegar—was never mine. False, it says, with a cool percentage beside it: 93% fabricated.

I remember anyway. Salt air threading my hair; my fingers tacky with sherbet; the way the boards flexed and groaned beneath our footsteps. A green kite bucking over the water like a stubborn fish, my father’s laugh gusting out of him in great harmless storms. The arcade flickered, neon stuttering in the daylight, and a gull—pale, impertinent—landed on the rail, its eye like a bead. Everything smelled of frying and resin and sunburn. At the end, a small kiosk handed me a warm paper bag of chips and a coin pressed, ceremonious, into my palm for luck.

Yet the screen refuses to corroborate. No transactions, it says; no geotags; no photographs in the cloud; no witnesses picked up by municipal CCTV; Meridian Pier was demolished three years before my birth. It offers alternatives in soft, anodyne language—You may be conflating visits to North Quay; consider reviewing your memory timeline—like a courteous teacher nudging an answer. The number rises: 95%. Each percentage point feels like an eraser moving cleanly across me.

I phone my mother. She pauses, then laughs, embarrassed by the pause. We never went to Meridian, she tells me; we couldn’t have; it was gone. And then, more gently: But you and your father did fly kites on the Heath once, remember, with that green ribbon tangled in the trees? I open old albums anyway. There I am, gap-toothed, orange with sunset in a field; there he is, shoulders squared, hat askew; but there is no pier, no arcade, no gull with a bead-bright eye tilted at me.

Memory is supposed to be a palimpsest—ink over ink—but this feels deliberate, as if someone traced a pier into me with a careful, proprietary hand. Whose? Why? The app offers a solution with a little chiming sound: Flag for correction? Delete anomaly? I hover. If I erase it, what else loosens, unthreads? If I keep it, am I choosing a lie? Absurdly, a rectangle on my wrist makes me feel small. So I go.

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

Option A:

Stepping out of the lift, I meet a garden that climbs the air. Rows rise in quiet tiers, ribbed with mauve and ice-blue light; the ever-humming fans stir the leaves into a careful shimmer. Here, soil is a rumour: roots dangle in silver channels, drinking a slow, mineral rain. A thin walkway edges the stacks, lit with a cautious glow; the floor thrums gently underfoot, as if the building kept a secret pulse.

Everything is measured, tender, astonishingly calm. Nutrient pumps pulse, regular as a heartbeat; pipes carry their clear language from tank to tray; a thin mist threads the aisles, tasting faintly of basil and batteries. My breath fogs the glass; condensation pearls, then descends in considerate drops. Drones, neat as buttons, patrol between lettuces, their rotors whispering; they blink, they judge, they hover, then move on. It hums.

Meanwhile, two workers in pale coats move along the gantry. Soft shoes; soft voices. Their gloved fingers turn leaves, clip stems, log growth—numbers, dates, a quiet arithmetic. Above, a ceiling of pipes looks like exposed roots; beneath, the city spreads in a mosaic of glass and roads. Through the window, cars loop like glow-worms; buses drag threads of light. Down at the street, a siren flares then folds itself into the distance, devoured by glass. Inside, the farm keeps its own day: timed dawn, programmed dusk; on, off, on, off, until leaf and fruit obey the rhythm.

Here technology feels almost tender. It should be clinical, it isn't. The place breathes. A tomato vine lifts its bound arms as if remembering wind; lettuce heads sit minted and precise; herbs throw a handspan of scent that surprises even in this engineered weather. What is a farm, if not patience arranged in rows? Perhaps only the direction has changed. Instead of reaching across a field, harvest stacks upward, storey after storey, a vertical meadow in a city that not so long ago knew only concrete. When the lights dim—the pink softening to evening—there’s a collective sigh: pumps hush; fans idle; the drones settle. The garden waits, very high above the street, and it goes on growing.

Option B:

Autumn. The season when breath fogs the glass; when the city rustles with paper and leaves. The Recall Suite smells of disinfectant and something electrical, like hot tin. Under the ceiling’s hard light my palm rests inside a cradle, a cool hoop of chrome around my wrist. The nurse—her badge says Mia—tells me to relax; the machine needs calm waves. I try, though my pulse drums like an anxious sparrow.

I am on the pier. My dad’s red scarf is a flag; gulls fold and unfold like creased letters. The boards tap under my shoes—tap, tap, tap—while I count. There’s a picture booth that burps out a strip of photos; we are too close to fit, our faces squashed, our mouths open with laughter. He buys me a caramel apple I cannot finish, sticky lacquer gluing my teeth; a busker plays a tune that feels brave. We feed a coin into the mechanical horse and it jerks to life, its mane scratched to silver. My fingers are inside my father’s glove because the wind is a blade. I am seven. I am small. I am so sure.

Behind the glass, the algorithm crawls across the screen; green bars fill, then stop. Veracity check: inconclusive—then, in an indifferent font: No corroborating Lifelog data. No municipal footage. False memory probable. Mia clears her throat and says it softly, as if softness can help. “Sometimes our brains stitch things,” she tells me. “They collage.”

But I have the strip of photographs, don’t I? I can feel the torn edge in my wallet, the chemical shine. Yet when I unfold it, the corners are blanked by sun; our faces are ghosts, pale negatives that could be anyone. The printer coughs up a paper slip—Result: Fabricated—like a judge’s verdict. I want to argue with a machine; with a girl younger than the memory itself. Instead, I chew the inside of my cheek and taste the old caramel.

However hard I blink, the pier doesn’t sharpen. The truth should be solid; stone underfoot. Mine wobbles like the wooden boards I swear I walked on, and that wobble makes my stomach tilt. If a memory can be deleted by a sentence on a screen, what else can be unmade? I pocket the verdict anyway. It is thin, and light.

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

Option A:

The glass sides of the skyscraper shine, but inside the light is softer. A purple glow runs along the aisles from long LED strips. Trays rise on metal frames, floor after floor, like library shelves filled with living pages. Leaves seem translucent, a neat, luminous green held up to the sky. It feels as if the farm is hanging in the air; a quiet garden above the thunder of streets.

Sound gathers here: a constant hum of fans, the tick of timers, drip, drip, drip of clear water sliding through hydroponic channels. There is no soil, yet the air smells damp and clean, like rain on plastic and peppery herbs. Roots hang in pale strings beneath the trays, washed by a nutrient stream; little pumps pulse, patient and regular. When the nozzles mist, the leaves shiver and glitter, catching the purple light like tiny stars.

A worker moves between the rows in a white coat, footsteps rubber-soft. She taps a tablet; graphs climb and dip in calm colours. Her hand brushes basil, then lettuce, then a vine holding small tomatoes the colour of sunrise. She lifts one leaf to the light and nods. It is careful work, almost ceremonial—seed to stem, day to day.

Outside the glass, the city spreads like a map: cars drift like silver insects, the river a grey ribbon. Inside, the weather is different. Always spring. My breath fogs a little on the pane; condensation gathers and slips down in thin lines. The frames run up and up; ladders, lifts, light. It is mechanical and gentle, an orchard arranged by rulers and screens.

Somehow, this place feels hopeful. Food grows where the wind once skated. In a tower that touches clouds, the farm keeps its rhythm—steady and exact—above the restless, brilliant city below.

Option B:

Sunday. The sort of morning that feels like leftover light; the kettle sighs, the fridge ticks, and my phone glows on the table as if it knows better than me. Across the screen, 'False Memory' is printed in calm grey letters, like a teacher's mark. My thumb goes hot. It is only an app, it is only a label, but the word bites.

I have told this story since I could hold cutlery: Dune End beach, the paper kite with a red star climbing the wind, my mother’s voice chasing me up the slope. The sea was tin-coloured; gulls tore the sky; we smelled of salt and vinegar and cheap sun cream. I can see her hands (small but certain) tying the knot and letting me run. Strawberry ice cream stained my wrist, sticky and sweet, and the sand scratched my knees and I didn’t care.

But MemoryCheck disagrees, it says the image I sent cannot be authenticated. It shows diagrams and neat blue charts: shadow angles, tide tables, weather logs. It cross-references public cams and shop records. In seconds—while the kettle still grumbles—it decides my story contradicts facts. The kite with the red star was released in August, not July; the pier was under scaffolding that week. The app calculates a confidence score, 97%, and the banner returns: false.

Still, when I shut my eyes I feel the pull in my palm and hear her laugh. Maybe I invented a red star; maybe the day was different. The machine is precise; mine is stubborn. I press play again, hoping for a blur I missed. In the corner my mother’s face jerks into pixels, like rain on glass. I think about deleting the story, but I take the old kite handle from the drawer instead. The string is frayed; it leaves a pale line on my skin.

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

Option A:

The tower’s glass skin holds a garden of light. Inside, levels float like pages on a tall book, each one brushed in violet from the grow lamps. Condensation pearls on the panes and slides down in slow beads; the air is warm and wet, carrying mint and soil-that-isn’t-soil. Fans hum in a low, patient voice—pipes carry silver water along the walls. Rows stand straight, the rails squeak, the floor shivers faintly when pumps wake.

On the first tier, lettuce sits in pale trays, roots thin as threads in blue channels. Drip, drip, drip, the irrigation keeps time like a metronome that never sleeps. Leaves reach for borrowed sun, not real but stubbornly bright; each rib glows as if it stores a sunrise. A worker in a clean jacket moves carefully, shoes sticking a little on the wet grate. A small drone flits past with a soft buzz, polite, almost shy.

Further up, vines climb cables in quiet spirals. Tomatoes hang like small moons; strawberries blush under nets, their green smell both sweet and sharp. A narrow catwalk crosses the open atrium: beyond the glass, the city smears into windows and traffic. Outside everything honks and rushes, inside the farm breathes. The machines whisper, checking pH and humidty, and numbers blink on tiny screens like watchful eyes.

Above, tanks of fish turn the water and feed the roots; bubbles rise, pop, rise, pop. Light bars hang in lines, icicles turned electric, painting the undersides of leaves soft blue. Up and up the floors repeat: germinate, grow, harvest; repeat. It feels industrial and tender at once, a careful engine of green. The city looks in, and this place looks back with a steady, patient gaze.

Option B:

Autumn. The time when leaves turn like rusting coins; pavements freckled with gold and brown; breath floats in front of your face like a small cloud. And memories thicken. They line up in my head, neat as books, and one opens by itself.

I am on the pier. Night salt, wet wood. Dad's hand is warm around my shoulder, and he presses a watch into my palm. "For when you don't have me," he says. The gulls wheel, the lights hum, grease in the air. The watch ticks like a tiny heart.

This is what I told the app, when school made us upload a 'core memory' to TrueMind for our life map. It scanned my voice, sifted my photos; the bar filled. Then a red line snapped across the screen. False memory, it printed, fabricated content; no location data, no purchase record, Father overseas that date.

I stare at the watch on my wrist, the cold metal, the faint engraving that spells my name - slightly crooked. If the machine is right, where did it come from? How can the sea be in my mouth if I was in the library that night, like the algorithm insists. Maybe I mixed two days, or dreamed it so hard it became true, like gum that keeps its flavour.

However, the more I doubt it, the more the pier returns: rope-burn on my palm, Dad's coat smelling of rain. I decide I will go back, after school, to the water, to the place where the app says I didn't stand. Just to check.

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

Option A:

The farm climbs inside the skyscraper like a tall green bookcase. Racks and racks of leaves stand under strips of purple light, buzzing gently. The air is warm and damp; it smells of wet soil and clean plastic. Fans hum, a soft breath, and tiny drops bead on the transparent walls. Water trickles through clear tubes, again and again, backward and forward, feeding roots that hang like pale hair. Metal rails gleam; shadows stretch across aisles. The lights glow as if sunrise has been trapped in bars. When I look up, I see levels stacked to the roof, a maze of green and silver.

At the end, screens blink: temperature, humidity, nutrients. Workers in white coats move slowly, careful hands, careful steps. A small drone slips between rows, like a tidy wasp, checking leaves. There is a drip, a click, a steady hum; it becomes a calm rhythm. Above, pipes cross like veins, carrying life to lettuce, herbs and strawberries. Outside is glass and traffic, but in here it's quieter, almost peaceful. It feels futuristic - and close, almost cosy. I breathe in the cool mist and taste green on my tongue, while the farm grows upwards, up and up.

Option B:

Morning. The time of burnt toast, buses sighing, light sliding through blinds. I remember the fair on the hill, the smell of wet coins at the bus stop, Mum’s laugh cracking like ice; we missed the bus and didn’t care. I held a yellow balloon. We climbed the railings to see the rides turning like planets. So why does my Lifelog show a flat, grey line? “No data,” it says. False memory detected.

I swipe and search, pinching the timeline with my thumb. I ask the speaker, “Did we go to the fair?” It answers with a tin voice: “No record found.” The photos for that day are blank; a strip of nothing. Yet I can taste sugar and oil, the warm fog of doughnuts.

Maybe I stitched it from old clips. Maybe my brain is a messy editor—glue and tape everywhere. Or maybe the tech blinked and missed it; systems aren’t saints. The balloon I kept is under my bed, small and wrinkled but stubbornly yellow. If that isn’t proof, then what is? I press record and tell the story again, so it doesn’t vanish.

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

Option A:

Inside the tall building there is a garden going up and up. Rows of plants stand on shelves and the shelves climb the walls. The lights are bright - they shine like small moons. The air is warm and wet, it smells like water and soil, my hands feel damp.

Thin pipes run like veins. Water trickles, drip drip, it makes a tiny song. Fans hum in the corners and the sound is soft and steady.

A worker in a white coat moves slow and careful, checking leaves, checking roots. He writes on a pad and nods. He touch the stem and it shakes a little, blue light makes it glow.

Outside the city is loud but here it is calm. The skyscaper windows show clouds and the glass glows. There is rows and rows of green, it goes to the ceiling and higher in my head. It is like a future garden, neat and strange.

Option B:

I remember the orange bench by the river. The kite was blue like the sky, only sharper. Mum was laughing and my hand was sticky with salt from chips. The wind pushed my hair and the flag made a slappy sound. I remeber the river smell, and the boat in my fist, and I thought this will stay forever in my head.

But my phone says its false. The app on there says: FALSE MEMORY. It beeps and flashes like it knows better than me. i type the date and the place and it says no photos found, no trips, no record. The screen stares back, cold, and i feel small.

We was there, I keep saying. I remember, I remember! So why is there sand in my shoe, why do I still taste salt. why does mums note say “back by eight” in my bag?

I try again, and the phone says no again. It cant be wrong—can it.

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

Option A:

The building is tall and glass. Inside there is a farm going up and up. Plants sit on shelves like steps and the lights are pink and blue and they hum. I walk on a narrow path and my hands touch the metal rail, it is wet and warm. Water drips drip drip. It smell like wet leaves and soap. I see pipes like snakes. A worker moves slow and he wears a mask, he write on a small board. Outside the windows cars look tiny, I think about the sky. The plants keep growing and growing in the bright eletric glow.

Option B:

Summer. Warm air on my face. I remember the park and the green kite it was big and it pull my arm like a dog. My brother laugh and I fell, grass on my knees. I think about it a lot. I open my phone and the memory app say no. It says this day never happen, it says I was at home then. My watch says 0 step's and the photo bit show no pictures. I seen it but it were real. I tell myself it is real, wind, sun, string. Mum shouts tea, phone buzz again.