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 How did the narrator's brother respond to the narrator's attempts to speak?: The narrator's brother shook his head and raised a finger to signal 'listen'. – 1 mark
• 1.2 How does the narrator's brother signal to the narrator in response to the narrator's attempts to speak?: By holding up one finger to indicate that the narrator should listen – 1 mark
• 1.3 What physical signal did the brother use to communicate with the narrator when the brother could not hear what the narrator was saying?: The brother raised one finger to indicate that the narrator should listen – 1 mark
• 1.4 How does the narrator's brother indicate that the narrator should listen?: The narrator's brother holds up one of his fingers – 1 mark

Question 2 - Mark Scheme

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

6 “At first I could not make out what he meant—but soon a hideous thought flashed upon me. I dragged my watch from its fob. It was not going. I glanced at its face by the moonlight, and then burst into tears as I flung it far away into the ocean. _It had run down at seven o’clock! We were behind the time of

11 the slack, and the whirl of the Ström was in full fury!_ “When a boat is well built, properly trimmed, and not deep laden, the waves in a strong gale, when she is going large, seem always to slip from beneath her—which appears very strange to a landsman—and this is what is called

How does the writer use language here to show the narrator’s sudden understanding and the threat at sea? You could include the writer’s choice of:

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

[8 marks]

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

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

Level 4 (Perceptive, detailed analysis) – 7–8 marks Shows perceptive and detailed understanding of language: analyses effects of choices; selects judicious detail; sophisticated and accurate terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 4 response would analyse how the dash and metaphor in "but soon a hideous thought flashed upon me" signal a sudden epiphany, with staccato simple sentences—"I dragged my watch from its fob. It was not going."—and emotive, dynamic verbs ("burst into tears," "flung it far away") culminating in the exclamative "It had run down at seven o’clock!" to crystallise panic. It would also explore how nautical lexis and personification frame the sea’s threat—"behind the time of the slack" marks fatal mistiming and "the whirl of the Ström was in full fury" (with the alliterative force of "full fury") casts the vortex as enraged—while the abrupt shift to a long, technical clause ("When a boat is well built, properly trimmed...") contrasts textbook calm with immediate peril to intensify danger.

The writer fuses abrupt sentence forms with vivid personification to capture the narrator’s instant epiphany and the sea’s menace. The dash in “I could not make out what he meant—but soon” functions as a caesural pivot, signalling the mental snap from uncertainty to certainty as a “hideous thought” “flashed” upon him; the verb suggests a lightning-like, involuntary revelation. Precise, dynamic verbs—“dragged my watch,” “burst into tears,” “flung it… into the ocean”—render his panic kinetic, while the cold “moonlight” casts a spectral chill over the discovery. The curt, simple declarative “It was not going.” isolates the shock; even the watch’s “face” personifies time as a judging presence, intensifying his sudden understanding.

Moreover, exclamatives crystallise the threat at sea: “It had run down at seven o’clock!” and “in full fury!” The personification of time—“had run down”—and the fricative alliteration in “full fury” animate the Ström as enraged and relentless. Specialist maritime lexis—“behind the time of the slack,” “whirl,” and the proper noun “Ström”—creates a fatal timetable and mythicises the vortex, suggesting an unknowable, colossal power.

Additionally, the tonal shift into a complex, didactic sentence—“When a boat is well built, properly trimmed, and not deep laden…”—uses a triadic list and nautical jargon (“going large”) to impose order against chaos. Personifying the boat as “her,” and making the waves “slip from beneath her,” implies survival depends on exact conditions. The parenthetical aside “which appears very strange to a landsman” widens the reader’s vulnerability. Thus, through sharp contrasts in syntax and a lexical field of time and violence, the writer charts the jolt of comprehension amid an ever-mounting maritime threat.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Shows clear understanding; explains effects; relevant detail; clear and accurate terminology. Indicative Standard: Through dynamic verbs and emotive reaction, the narrator’s sudden understanding is shown in "a hideous thought flashed upon me," "dragged my watch," and "burst into tears," while nautical lexis and personification ("behind the time of the slack," "the whirl of the Ström was in full fury!") plus exclamatives like "It had run down at seven o’clock!" and the dash increase pace to convey the sea’s immediate threat.

The writer shows the narrator’s sudden understanding through dynamic verbs and abrupt sentence forms. The dash in 'I could not make out what he meant—but soon a hideous thought flashed upon me' signals a sudden shift to clarity, while the metaphor 'flashed' suggests lightning-like realisation. Short, simple sentences like 'I dragged my watch from its fob. It was not going' create a clipped rhythm that mirrors shock, and violent verbs 'dragged' and 'flung it far away' reveal panic as the truth hits.

Furthermore, the threat at sea is heightened by exclamatives and personification. The exclamation 'It had run down at seven o’clock!' conveys alarm, and the nautical lexis 'behind the time of the slack' shows their missed safety window. Calling the maelstrom 'the whirl of the Ström' and saying it was 'in full fury' personifies the sea as a raging force; the alliteration in 'full fury' intensifies its aggression.

Additionally, the long, complex sentence about 'a strong gale' and waves that 'slip from beneath her' uses expert jargon ('going large', 'landsman') to contrast sailorly knowledge with a novice’s fear. The feminine pronoun 'her' for the boat emphasises its vulnerability, underlining the narrator’s new understanding and the sea’s peril.

Level 2 (Some understanding and comment) – 3–4 marks Attempts to comment on effects; some appropriate detail; some use of terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 2 response might pick out emotive and action words like "a hideous thought flashed upon me", the short sentence "It was not going.", and "flung it far away" to show his sudden realisation and panic, noting the dash in "meant—but soon" shows a quick change. It might also mention the exclamation marks in "It had run down at seven o’clock!" and "the whirl of the Ström was in full fury!" to make the sea seem violent and threatening.

The writer uses metaphor and powerful verbs to show the narrator’s sudden understanding. The phrase “a hideous thought flashed upon me” suggests the realisation is instant and shocking, and verbs like “burst into tears” and “flung it … into the ocean” show panic and despair.

Furthermore, sentence forms highlight urgency. The short exclamatory sentence “It had run down at seven o’clock!” and the dash in “could not make out…—but soon” show his sudden shock and hesitation as he realises what is happening.

Moreover, the sea is presented as a threat through word choice. “The whirl of the Ström was in full fury!” personifies the current as violent, while technical terms like “slack” and “strong gale” make the danger clear. “Slip from beneath her” shows the boat is not safe.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple comment; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer shows sudden understanding with the word flashed upon me, emotive detail like burst into tears, and a short, shocked sentence It was not going.. The exclamation It had run down at seven o’clock! and the phrase the whirl of the Ström was in full fury! suggest the sea is very dangerous.

The writer uses powerful verbs to show sudden understanding. The phrase “a hideous thought flashed upon me” uses “flashed” to suggest it comes quickly. He “burst into tears,” which shows panic. Moreover, the exclamation “It had run down at seven o’clock!” shows his shock. The dashes and short sentences also create urgency. Furthermore, words about the sea show threat, like “the whirl of the Ström” and “in full fury.” The word “fury” makes the sea seem angry and dangerous. This makes the reader see the sea as a threat.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Dash-marked shift and violent metaphor of thought → shows instantaneous, alarming comprehension breaking earlier confusion → (a hideous thought flashed)
• Dynamic verb for checking the watch → conveys urgency and physical agitation as he verifies the time → (dragged my watch)
• Blunt minor sentence → the abruptness mimics shock as time itself seems to stop → (It was not going)
• Emotive reaction and dramatic gesture → reveals overwhelming dread and despair at the realisation → (burst into tears)
• Exclamative revelation about time → the timing error is highlighted as catastrophic, intensifying panic → (run down at seven)
• Technical tidal term → grounds the danger in missed safe water, clarifying the cause of peril → (the slack)
• Personification/intensifier for the sea → frames the current as wrathful and irresistible → (in full fury)
• Shift to complex, authoritative syntax and nautical lexis → contrasts with earlier fragments to explain the threatening conditions coolly → (properly trimmed)
• Image of unstable motion → suggests treacherous support vanishing beneath the boat, heightening risk → (slip from beneath)
• Parenthetical aside addressing outsiders → stresses how alien this danger is to non-sailors, increasing unease → (strange to a landsman)

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 story.

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

You could write about:

• how calm emerges 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: A Level 4 response would trace a structural progression from escalating external tumult—signalled by the cacophonous "din" and vertiginous "up—up—as if into the sky"—to a threshold shift where "the waves subside," "the roaring noise of the water was completely drowned" within the "belt of surf," and the narrative pivots from action to interiority, using longer, reflective clauses and concessive refrains (e.g., "It may appear strange") to reframe peril ("very jaws of the gulf") as composure and curiosity ("I felt more composed," "Having made up my mind to hope no more," "how magnificent a thing it was to die," "a wish to explore"), thereby slowing the pace and creating a paradoxical calm by the end of the passage.

One way in which the writer structures the text to create calm is through a controlled temporal progression that gradually decelerates the narrative pace. Early temporal references—“Presently,” “At first,” “soon”—move rapidly alongside the “din” and “full fury,” but a pivot arrives with “It could not have been more than two minutes afterward,” which reorients time and softens momentum. By the close, slower markers such as “After a little while” accompany the tonal shift to acceptance: “I felt more composed,” having “made up my mind to hope no more.” This sequencing orchestrates a trajectory from panic to poise, so that calm emerges as a structurally engineered end-state.

In addition, the writer shifts the focus from external chaos to interior reflection, modulating tone. The opening foregrounds auditory and kinetic overload—“screamed,” “shrill shriek,” “up—up”—but the latter paragraphs privilege cognitive verbs and meditative lexis: “I began to reflect,” “I do believe,” “I positively felt a wish.” This sustained first‑person perspective narrows from environment to consciousness, and the elevated register (“magnificent… God’s power”) reframes peril as sublime spectacle. That tonal reclassification has a soothing effect, inviting the reader into a composed, philosophical vantage point.

A further structural device is the insertion of expository interpolations that stabilise the discourse. The didactic aside, “When a boat is well built… this is what is called riding,” functions as a narrative pause, imposing order amid disorder. Likewise, spatial mapping—“belt of surf,” “starboard… larboard”—and the decisive “one glance… all sufficient” impose schematic clarity. Even the cyclical motif—“revolutions of the boat”—regularises rhythm, enabling detachment (“light-headed”). Collectively, these features slow, focus, and rationalise the scene, culminating in an earned sense of calm.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Explains effects; relevant examples; clear terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 3 response would explain that the writer structures a shift from external turmoil to inward calm: after the escalating 'din', the frantic motion of 'up—up' and 'down we came', and the whirlpool’s 'full fury', the time marker 'two minutes afterward' signals a turning point as 'the waves subside'. From here the focus narrows to the narrator’s reflections—he states 'I felt more composed', 'Having made up my mind', developing 'keenest curiosity' and a 'wish to explore', so the structure slows and the mood settles by the end.

One way the writer structures calm is by creating a clear turning point that contrasts chaos with composure. The opening builds cacophony and panic (“the din had so increased”, “up—up… down we came”), but the narrative pivots when “we suddenly felt the waves subside” and the boat “made a sharp half turn.” “I felt more composed” signals a tonal shift from terror to acceptance, steadying the mood.

In addition, the pace slows through longer, more complex sentences once calm emerges. The reflective syntax of “I began to reflect how magnificent a thing it was to die…” and “After a little while I became possessed with the keenest curiosity” decelerates the narrative. This slower rhythm, replacing the earlier short, listing phrases (“a sweep, a slide, and a plunge”), soothes the reader and produces a meditative calm.

A further structural choice is the shift in focus and narrative distance. The writer moves from external, sensory detail to interior perspective and commentary: “Having made up my mind to hope no more…” and “I have often thought since.” These temporal markers and the sustained first-person viewpoint add distance and control, while curiosity about the whirl (“a wish to explore its depths”) reframes fear as calm observation.

Level 2 (Some understanding and comment) – 3–4 marks Attempts to comment; some examples; some terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 2 response might note that the structure shifts from noise and panic at the start (din, screamed at the top of my voice) through time-linked stages (Presently, At first, It could not have been more than two minutes afterward) to a later focus on the narrator’s inner state (I felt more composed, Having made up my mind to hope no more), so calm emerges by the end as the action gives way to reflection.

One way the writer structures the text to create calm is by moving from panic at the beginning to calm at the end. At the start there is loud noise and panic (“din”, “screamed”), but by the end he says he feels “more composed”. Putting the calm at the end makes it feel like a resolution for the reader.

In addition, the writer uses time words (temporal references) to show this change happening. “At first”, “soon” and “two minutes afterward” show time passing, and the moment when “the waves subside” is a turning point that calms the scene.

A further structural feature is a shift in focus from action to thoughts and feelings. After the dangerous description, the narrator reflects: “I began to reflect” and even has a “wish to explore”. This slower pace and first-person viewpoint make the mood calmer.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: The extract moves from chaos to calm: it starts with noise and panic like "screamed at the top of my voice", "roaring" and "shrill shriek", but later the "waves subside" and he "felt more composed", so it feels calmer by the end. Simple time cues like "Presently" and "After a little while" show this change.

One way the writer structures the text to create calm is a change in focus. At the start there is loud action, but later it moves to his thoughts, and he feels ‘more composed’.

In addition, time words build calm. ‘Presently’, ‘now’, and ‘after a little while’ show the order of events. This sequence makes the pace feel slower and the ending seem calmer.

A further feature is longer, thinking sentences at the end. The first-person voice says he ‘began to reflect’, which slows the action and changes the tone to calm.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Dialogue collapses into a silent gesture that redirects attention from noise to focused listening, foreshadowing composure (listen!)
• The stopped watch acts as a structural turning point; time halts, prompting surrender of control that enables acceptance (It was not going)
• An explanatory aside reframes chaos in orderly, technical terms, slowing pace and stabilising tone (riding)
• A decisive inner resolution marks the mood pivot; relinquishing hope steadies him into composure (made up my mind)
• A physical easing signals tonal easing; the environment models the narrator’s settling emotions (waves subside)
• Clear reorientation removes uncertainty; being carried decisively reduces struggle and encourages acceptance (half turn to larboard)
• Stepwise temporal markers pace the journey from panic to poise, guiding the reader gently through stages (Presently / At first / After a little while)
• Structural paradox concentrates calm at the climax: in greatest peril he explicitly reports composure (felt more composed)
• Focus shifts from action to measured thought; reflective narration builds a contemplative quiet (I began to reflect)
• Curiosity replaces fear, sustaining calm through purposeful attention to the phenomenon (wish to explore)

Question 4 - Mark Scheme

For this question focus on the second part of the source, from line 16 to the end.

In this part of the source, the narrator's sudden feeling of calm in the whirlpool seems unbelievable. The writer suggests that once all hope is lost, fear can be replaced by a strange curiosity.

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

In your response, you could:

• consider your impressions of the narrator's strange feeling of calm
• comment on the methods the writer uses to suggest his shift from terror to curiosity
• 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 perceptively evaluate that the writer makes the narrator’s calm both plausible and unsettling, using paradox (e.g., "Having made up my mind to hope no more, I got rid of a great deal of that terror which unmanned me at first", "I suppose it was despair that strung my nerves") and the sublime ("so wonderful a manifestation of God’s power") to justify curiosity ("keenest curiosity", "a wish to explore its depths"). It would also interrogate credibility via the self-conscious cue "It may appear strange" and the caveat "light-headed", noting the tonal shift from chaotic sensation ("shrill shriek", "jaws of the gulf") to measured reflection as evidence of the writer’s viewpoint that hopelessness can transmute fear into curiosity.

In this extract, I largely agree with the statement: the narrator’s composure in the “jaws of the gulf” initially feels incredible, yet the writer carefully motivates it by showing how, once hope is relinquished, terror mutates into a morbid, inquisitive calm.

At first, the prose amplifies fear through kinetic and auditory imagery. The repetition and dashes in “up—up—as if into the sky” mimic the vertiginous surge, while the sibilant triad “a sweep, a slide, and a plunge” recreates the sickening momentum. The simile “as if I was falling from some lofty mountain-top in a dream” fuses physical disorientation with unreality, heightening the unsteadiness of his mind. The narrator’s visceral response—“I involuntarily closed my eyes in horror… The lids clenched… in a spasm”—foregrounds an instinctive, bodily terror. Sound imagery intensifies the onslaught: the “shrill shriek” like “many thousand steam-vessels” is hyperbolic, overwhelming the senses. Around him, the sea is personified as predatory—“the very jaws of the gulf,” a “huge writhing wall”—so that deadly agency seems to close in. Against such a violently animated setting, the later serenity does, at first glance, seem unbelievable.

However, the writer marks a structural and tonal pivot. The metacomment “It may appear strange” acknowledges the reader’s scepticism, while the shift from collective peril (“we”) to introspective self-scrutiny (“I felt more composed”) draws us into his altered consciousness. The paradox “Having made up my mind to hope no more, I got rid of… terror” frames despair as anaesthetic: resignation “strung my nerves,” a striking antithesis that plausibly explains calm as a physiological and psychological recalibration. The lexis tilts from violent motion to reverent abstraction—“magnificent,” “wonderful,” “manifestation of God’s power”—reframing the vortex as sublime spectacle rather than threat. His “blush[ing] with shame” at valuing life “so paltry” adds moral earnestness, lending credibility to the shift.

Crucially, fear is displaced by curiosity. He is “possessed with the keenest curiosity,” even “a wish to explore its depths,” and his “principal grief” is not death but the loss of testimony—an almost scientific, storyteller’s impulse superseding survival. The simile “skim like an air-bubble” suggests weightlessness and dissociation, a mental lightness that facilitates wonder. Structurally, “after a little while” implies a brief but real interval, tempering the idea of a wholly “sudden” conversion.

Overall, I agree to a great extent. The serenity seems counterintuitive amid the sensory onslaught, yet the narrator’s candid asides and explanations—culminating in the concession he may have been “a little light-headed”—both account for and complicate it. The writer thus persuasively suggests that when hope is extinguished, terror can transmute into a strange, even exalted curiosity.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant evaluation) – 11–15 marks Clear ideas; clear methods; clear evaluation of impact; relevant references. Indicative Standard: A typical Level 3 response would mostly agree, explaining that once hope is gone the narrator’s fear diminishes: even in the very jaws of the gulf he says I felt more composed because Having made up my mind to hope no more, I got rid of a great deal of that terror, and he develops the keenest curiosity with a wish to explore its depths. It would also comment on method, noting religious awe (so wonderful a manifestation of God’s power) and stark contrast, while acknowledging his admission he might have rendered me a little light-headed makes his calm partly unbelievable.

I mostly agree with the statement: the narrator’s sudden composure inside the whirlpool initially seems unbelievable after such terror, yet the writer deliberately shows how, once hope is abandoned, fear mutates into a detached curiosity.

In the build-up, the writer saturates the scene with violent, sensory imagery so the calm jars. The kinetic tricolon “a sweep, a slide, and a plunge” and the simile of “falling from some lofty mountain-top” convey vertigo and loss of control. Sound imagery intensifies this with the “shrill shriek” that drowns the “roaring” sea, while the boat “shot off… like a thunderbolt,” a simile suggesting unstoppable speed. The sea itself becomes a “writhing wall,” personification that makes the ocean predatory. Structurally, elongation and dashes (“up—up”) mimic the heave of the swell. Set against this, his later claim, “I felt more composed,” does feel implausible.

However, the writer engineers and justifies the shift through reflective narration. The concessive opener “It may appear strange” signals a tonal change. He explains, “Having made up my mind to hope no more,” creating a paradox where “despair… strung my nerves.” The lexis turns philosophical and religious—“magnificent… to die,” “God’s power,” and “sacrifice”—which reframes the whirlpool as sublime rather than merely lethal. Intensifiers (“keenest curiosity,” “positively felt a wish”) foreground the replacement of terror with inquiry, and the structural move from external description to interior monologue supports this psychological turn. The writer even juxtaposes the external peril—“the very jaws of the gulf”—with inner calm to heighten the contrast.

Even so, the narrator undercuts complete credibility. He labels these as “singular fancies” and blames being “a little light-headed” from the boat’s “revolutions,” hinting at unreliability. This both explains and questions his calm.

Overall, I agree to a large extent: through contrast, simile, personification and a narrative shift, the writer suggests despair can anaesthetise fear into curiosity, while keeping a sliver of doubt that makes the calm intriguingly unbelievable.

Level 2 (Some evaluation) – 6–10 marks Some understanding; some methods; some evaluative comments; some references. Indicative Standard: A Level 2 response would partly agree, noticing that after "Having made up my mind to hope no more" the narrator becomes "more composed", and identifying the shift to curiosity in phrases like "It may appear strange", "the keenest curiosity", and a "wish to explore its depths". It might also briefly question believability by pointing to "despair that strung my nerves" and that he may be "light-headed", with a simple comment on contrast and first-person reflection to show the move from terror to curiosity.

I mostly agree with the statement. At first, the narrator’s calm seems unbelievable because the scene is terrifying. The writer piles on sensory imagery and violent similes: the boat “shot off… like a thunderbolt” and “skim[s] like an air-bubble”, while a “shrill shriek” drowns the roar. The sea is personified as a “writhing wall” and the whirl has “jaws”, which creates a hostile, living threat. This builds a tone of panic, so a sudden calm feels unnatural.

However, the writer also shows clearly how calm can follow when “hope” is gone. Structurally, the turning point is signalled by “It may appear strange”, and the first-person reflection “Having made up my mind to hope no more” explains the shift. The phrase “despair… strung my nerves” suggests a paradox: numbness replaces terror. This commentary helps the reader accept that his fear fades because he has surrendered to the situation.

The move from calm to “keenest curiosity” supports the second part of the statement. He even “felt a wish to explore its depths… at the sacrifice” of his life, and calls death “magnificent” in a display of religious imagery about “God’s power”. Yet the narrator also calls these “singular fancies” and hints he was “light-headed”, which makes him unreliable. Overall, I partly agree: the writer persuades us that despair can turn fear into curiosity, but the sudden calm still seems hard to believe.

Level 1 (Simple, limited) – 1–5 marks Simple ideas; limited methods; simple evaluation; simple references. Indicative Standard: Level 1 responses show simple awareness by broadly agreeing that the writer makes the calm seem unbelievable and that fear turns to curiosity once hope is gone. They point to basic phrases like "It may appear strange", "Having made up my mind to hope no more", "I felt more composed", and "possessed with the keenest curiosity".

I mostly agree with the statement. The narrator’s calm does seem unbelievable because he is in great danger, but the writer also shows his fear turning into curiosity when he loses hope.

At first the narrator is terrified. He says he “closed my eyes in horror” and the sound is a “shrill shriek.” The simile “shot off… like a thunderbolt” and the “writhing wall” of water make the scene violent, so a sudden calm feels strange.

However, when they reach “the very jaws of the gulf,” he says he “felt more composed.” The first-person voice lets us see his mind change. He explains he had “made up my mind to hope no more,” and “I suppose it was despair that strung my nerves.” This simple explanation makes his calm slightly more believable.

The writer also uses religious language, calling the whirl “a wonderful… manifestation of God’s power.” This shows awe instead of fear. Then his emotion shifts into curiosity: he has the “keenest curiosity” and even a “wish to explore its depths,” and he is sad he cannot “tell my old companions.”

Overall, I agree that once hope is gone, fear is replaced by curiosity. It still feels unbelievable, but the language makes his calm and interest understandable.

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

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

• Paradox/juxtaposition: calm at the brink defies expectation yet signals a genuine shift from panic to acceptance — felt more composed
• Causal reasoning: acceptance of hopelessness makes the composure psychologically plausible rather than unbelievable — hope no more
• Personification/metaphor: the sense of inevitable engulfment explains resignation in the face of doom — jaws of the gulf
• Religious awe: the sublime reframes death, replacing fear with reverence and meaning — God’s power
• Curiosity replacing fear: once terror subsides, inquiry into the phenomenon eclipses survival instinct — wish to explore its depths
• Diminution of self: devaluing ego before the vastness justifies detachment from danger — my own individual life
• Self-aware narration: admitting oddness invites trust while acknowledging how strange this calm is — It may appear strange
• Sensory overload earlier: intense nausea and motion heighten prior terror, making the later poise striking — sick and dizzy
• Vivid threat-imagery: the sea as a living barrier makes the composure seem extraordinary, even questionable — writhing wall
• Alternative cause: physiological disturbance offers a sceptical counterpoint to the calm/curiosity — light-headed

Question 5 - Mark Scheme

A crime fiction journal is running a competition for new writers.

Choose one of the options below for your entry.

• Option A: Describe a digital forensics lab from your imagination. You may choose to use the picture provided for ideas:

• Option B: Write the opening of a story about a hidden message.

(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:

Cold, aseptic light drips from stacked monitors, pooling on the lino like diluted mercury. The room hums—a low, ecclesiastical drone—as fans inhale and exhale behind perforated steel; thin blue LEDs blink with patient insistence. It smells of hot dust and resolute coffee, isopropyl and invisible electricity. The air tastes faintly metallic, like a bitten battery. Air-conditioning rakes the ceiling. On the far wall, a clock spills red numerals into the dark: 03:17, 03:18. Not night, not morning, merely the long, metallic interval where data decides whether to speak.

Cables creep across benches in docile knots, braided like river weeds and cinched by cable ties; some rise in taut, arterial arcs to meet write-blockers (stern chaperones of evidence). On anti-static mats, devices sleep—phones swaddled in Faraday pouches, drives heavy with unspilled stories. Wrist straps loop and bite lightly; static is a sin here. Labels, pale and meticulous, halo each item: case numbers, timestamps, initials; order on disorder. The screens, meanwhile, are seas—charcoal filmed with phosphor—where cursors skate and logs unspool, line by line by line.

Beyond the benches, a narrow glass cabinet rests in its own glow: evidence sealed, sealed again, and documented. A door seals with a conscientious hush; the keypad blinks, watchful; a small sign reads: Air-gapped. The chain of custody is both mantra and map—sign, date, time; sign, date, time—an incantation against forgetfulness. Here, nothing is touched without gloves; fingerprints have been politely banished. The printer, contrary and obedient, chatters; a report emerges—hash values that look random but aren’t. Integrity is measured and remeasured; if it matches, it matters.

Concurrently, at the imaging station, a progress bar advances with maddening grace: 7%, 21%, 63%—then a pause. The software narrates in its own unfussy dialect: sector read, sector skipped, sector verified. Across the aisle, an analyst leans in, eyes caught in the glow; her hands float, then settle; her patience is practiced. Keyboard strokes come in staccato clusters; the mouse draws cautious circles; a timeline blossoms, delicate as frost, across the screen. A dog-eared manual lies open, its pages flagged under a task lamp. Past, present, private, public—they braid together, then separate, then braid again.

It is not cinematic. It is meticulous. A quiet choreography of procedure where certainty is engineered, not guessed. Outside, evening and morning may argue; inside, the lab refuses such drama, working instead by measured increments, by checksums and cross-references, by methodical returns. And yet, there is wonder here: light sifting over circuits; silence stitched with electricity; meaning distilled from noise. In this deliberate half-dark, the truth does not confess—it is coaxed, corroborated, carved from silence, byte by careful byte. Not glamour, not chaos; simply the disciplined patience that lets the past reassemble itself.

Option B:

Not every message announces itself; some arrive disguised as dust, as the tilt of a frame, as a pause that lingers just a fraction too long. You learn to read the room before you read the words: the scuffed skirting boards, the bitten pencil stubs, the soft, papery sigh of an envelope as it yields to a thumbnail. Silence can be articulate when you let it.

That afternoon, the old house spoke in its own stubborn dialect. Light fell in slanted bars through the attic hatch and turned the drifting dust into a slow, luminous snowfall. Rhea balanced on the second-to-last rung of the stepladder—wobbling, cautious, breath carefully rationed—and passed down boxes labelled with her grandmother’s neat, unwavering hand: BUTTONS; RECEIPTS; CARDS. Each label was a miniature verdict, everything in its place, a life itemised in pencil lines and brittle string.

Inside, the air had a flavour, faintly of lavender and old apples. The paper was soft as cloth where years had thumbed it thin. Rhea lifted the lid of CARDS and the familiar parade began—Christmas robins, lacquered coats of newborns, congratulations on improbable accomplishments. Yet beneath the predictable there was an oddity: a plain pad, grey with age, pages torn away in ragged leaf-shapes. It should have been empty.

It wasn’t. Not exactly.

Holding the pad at an angle, she saw the page’s surface wasn’t smooth; it was a winter field—scored, furrowed, crossed where someone had written and then removed the words. Indentations ran across it in faint lines. Rhea knew, suddenly and unreasonably, what to do. She found a pencil at the bottom of the box (dented, its eraser petrified) and, heart thudding a little too loudly in the hush, shaded the graphite lightly over the page. Grey gathered in the grooves. Letter by letter, a phrase surfaced as if warmed from invisibility: a message raised from the dead by friction and patience.

If you’ve found this, I failed.

The sentence looked almost embarrassed by its own melodrama, but it nonetheless pressed its cold palm to her skin. Who wrote this? When? Failed at what? Her grandmother had been the sort of woman who folded wrapping paper to use again, who balanced budgets to the penny; failure did not usually figure in the family’s story.

She read on—because of course there was more. The indentations continued, fragmented by tears and slips where the pressure had faltered:

Don’t trust the photograph on the landing. Look beneath… third… tile… blue…

Blue what? Rhea tried to coax the half-sentences into coherence, moving the pencil sideways, applying more pressure, then less. It was absurd and thrilling in equal measure, like fishing a message in a bottle from an imagined sea. The attic creaked around her in small, private noises; downstairs the boiler clunked into life.

A photograph on the landing. The photograph. Everyone knew it—the one of her grandparents on their wedding day, her grandmother’s smile a careful crescent, her grandfather’s tie crooked by a rebellious millimetre. Rhea had seen it every visit since she was small, had traced the filigree edge of its frame, had never once wondered whether it consented to the truth it was meant to tell.

She closed the pad, folded the pencil back into the box (for now), and climbed down. Her palms left pale, floury ghosts on the ladder’s steps. The house seemed to draw itself up as she crossed the landing—pictures watching, floorboards deciding whether to complain. It was only a photograph, and perhaps the message was just a family joke, an old prank scrawled by a cousin with more creativity than sense.

Or so she told herself.

At the landing, she stood before the wedding portrait. The glass held her reflection faintly over theirs, like a shadowed blessing. For a moment—just a moment—she thought the bride’s eyes were looking past the camera and directly at her. Then Rhea slipped a fingernail under the corner of the backing and felt, distinct and deliberate, the raised edge of something hidden beneath.

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

Option A:

Blue light puddles across brushed steel benches, shifting whenever a fan stutters. The lab sits mostly dark; not sleeping, exactly, but waiting. From cage-like racks, cables droop and braid into a patient tangle, a web that both invites and warns. The air hums — a low, even thrum — while tiny status LEDs blink in polite order: green, green, amber, green. Click—tick. Beneath it all the floor carries a faint vibration, as if the building has a pulse.

On an anti-static mat, evidence waits: a phone sealed in a silver Faraday bag; a laptop strapped with brittle tape; a drive labelled in thin, angular handwriting. The smell is a mixture of warm dust, plastic, and the ghost of coffee. In the corner, steel cabinets stand locked; between the drive and the machine, a write-blocker sits — a small, black gate that allows only one direction. On the wall, the chain-of-custody log is pinned, an honest ledger: time, initials, case number. Gloves snap softly; drawers close with a soft sigh; a wrist touches the grounding strap and the clip bites.

Across the central display a blue geometry swells: nodes like lanterns; lines mapping a conversation no human voice ever spoke. On another monitor, hex ticks past — 7A, 9F, 00 — a private alphabet, orderly, relentless. A progress bar inches; its patience becomes yours. Hash values settle into agreement; a checksum affirms what you can only trust to process and protocol — that a copy is a mirror, not a mimic. File trees unfold like hesitant ferns.

Here, silence is busy. A gloved hand rests lightly on a mouse, then moves with quiet economy. The analyst — hood up, back curved, eyes pale with screen-glow — taps out a pattern; the rhythm is neat, unshowy. Conversation, when it happens, is brief, exact: acquire volatile first; keep it write-blocked. Another figure checks the whiteboard, wipes a corner with a sleeve, writes again — a time, a hash, an arrow.

If the street outside is loud with certainty, this room is patient with doubt. It gathers what is left behind: timestamps like faint footprints; fragments of messages, deleted not gone; the halting shadows of searches. The lab does not accuse; it notices. Under the steady glow, traces assemble themselves, not theatrically, but carefully; and in that slow, disciplined arrangement there is a kind of calm. The machines continue to blink — green, green, amber, green — as if breathing. The room keeps its promise to remember.

Option B:

Dust is the language of old houses: soft, stubborn, telling stories only when light leans in. In Gran's attic, afternoon sun threaded itself through a cracked pane and turned the air to glitter. The boards muttered; the rafters held their breath.

I was meant to be sorting, categorising, being useful. Instead, my hands kept straying to the shelves. A green clothbound notebook sat askew, its spine split, its gilt title rubbed to a shadow. It smelt faintly of lavender and old tea. Gran always said she had 'nothing to hide' (just 'a life, not a legend'), yet even her handwriting, clean and looped, looked like it could keep a secret.

I opened to the first page. Blank. Then another—also blank—but there were tiny impressed grooves, as if a sentence had walked there and erased its own footprints. Heat changes paper: it coaxes the invisible into view. I remembered lemon-juice letters at the kitchen table. So I angled the notebook above the desk lamp—careful, careful—and waited. Slowly, letters bloomed in sepia.

The message wrote itself out, her voice trapped in chemistry: 'If you are reading this, you have learned to look slantwise. The house hides its heart where it lifts its foot. The seventh stair—bring the small key.' The seventh stair? And what small key? Then I saw it: the miniature iron key in the dented biscuit tin with spare buttons. What kind of grandmother leaves instructions for after she is gone? It felt, embarrassingly, like the start of a treasure hunt; childish and serious at once.

Secrets ask you to collude. They tug you forward and warn you back at the same time. The attic was a palimpsest; the thin light hummed. Downstairs, the old clock disagreed with itself. Gran measured her words in life, weighing every clause; even now, her message sounded brisk and a little mischievous. I traced the letters with a fingertip and tried not to smudge the past.

I closed the notebook and listened to the house breathe. If I followed this, I would be stepping into a story she had started without me. I slipped the notebook under my arm, coaxed open the biscuit tin, found the key—small, cool, feathered with rust—and felt it click against my palm like a promise. Then I stood at the stairs, counting under my breath: five, six, seven.

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

Option A:

The lab is dim, not gloomy but deliberate. Rows of monitors glow a disciplined blue, bathing the benches in a low tide of light. Thin LEDs wink—on, off, on, off—as if breathing in the dark. The air is conditioned and careful; it smells of ozone and plastic. Fans murmur from the racks, a steady whirr that settles into the bones.

Cables drape from machines in obedient loops, then tangle suddenly, a nest of black fibre that gives up no secrets at first glance. Labels flare in fluorescent ink: CASE/24/197; HASH VERIFIED; DO NOT ALTER. Clear bags hold drives the size of palms, each one patient, each one stubborn. There is order here, even in the mess—tape measured straight across drawers; a solitary screwdriver laid diagonally like a compass; the faint, bitter ring of coffee on a white pad, not quite wiped away.

The analyst moves carefully, sleeves pushed back, gloved hands exact. Meanwhile, a progress bar crawls across a forensic imager, a pale slug inching towards certainty. Strings of numbers march: 7a, 9f, 2c—hash values that promise integrity. Beyond the glass, security cameras blink; a red dot observes without judgement. On another screen, logs stream by in a grey waterfall, time-stamps clicking forward with a metronome’s patience.

Every object seems to listen. The write-blocker sits between past and present, denying temptation: evidence in, nothing out. A drive spins, a sound almost apologetic, like a whisper that forgot itself. There are protocols and forms, chain of custody written twice, then twice again, because the truth here is a narrow corridor and the doors must be locked. When code opens it opens like a flower—slow, precise, unshowy—and what it reveals is not dramatic but definite: who, when, where, sometimes why.

Still, the lab is not entirely machine. A photograph is pinned behind a monitor; a sticky note curls at the edge, half-peeled. A jacket hangs on the back of a chair, shouldering the neon. In this quiet, the tangled wires become maps, and the screens become windows. They flicker again—on, off, on, off—and the room returns to waiting, humming, holding its breath.

Option B:

Some messages prefer the dark. They settle in the corners of cupboards and under the skins of drawers like dust, patient and soft, until a careless hand wakes them. The house seemed to know this; it creaked as if it was clearing its throat, as if it had been holding a story in for too long. Light slid through the slatted blinds and broke into thin blades across the hallway, scattering over a staircase that had narrowed with age.

Lena climbed those stairs one careful foot at a time, fingers along the bannister for balance. She was meant to be sorting, not searching, but memory has its own agenda. Moth-eaten scarves, a cracked mirror, a box of badges that smelled faintly of metal and rain — everything appeared to carry a whisper. She paused at the landing, listening to the low hum of the fridge downstairs, to the rain sewing itself to the windows. It was Saturday, late afternoon, and the house had belonged to her grandmother for fifty-seven years. Now it belonged to silence.

In the back bedroom, the wallpaper had peeled at the skirting like a tired sticker. A chest of drawers stood under the window, its top scarred with rings of old tea cups. When Lena tugged the top drawer, it rasped; something inside snagged and then gave. The lining paper had creased at the corner. On impulse — and it did feel like an impulse rather than a choice — she lifted it. Underneath, the wood was pale and dusty, scored with the faint graphite of pencil. Words. Not many, but they were there, tight and quick, as if someone had written them standing up:

Look in the atlas under Rivers — page 98.

Her breath stopped and then stumbled back. The atlas was still on the shelf in the study, slouching beside a row of encyclopaedias. She used to trace the Amazon with a wet finger while her grandmother made hot chocolate, and the map would stain darker where she'd pressed too hard. The memory slid in like a tide and made the room shiver.

She should leave it; this was probably nothing. Just a note from years ago, a joke. However, the letters seemed freshly awake, alive. Lena pressed the lining back down gently, as if tucking the house in, and crossed the landing.

Downstairs, the study smelled of dust and lemon polish. The atlas waited — a blue spine, frayed at the bottom, stubborn as an old cat. Lena pulled it free, the pages fanning; a paper gust. She turned to Rivers, page 98, and found more than a map. Between the sheets, a slip of thin paper hid like a fish under a leaf. It was folded into a neat square.

Her thumb hesitated, then unfolded it. Four words. A place, a time, and her name. She didn't understand it yet, not really, but the message had chosen her and the house knew it. Outside, the rain thickened. Inside, somewhere deep, a clock began to tick louder than before.

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

Option A:

Blue light spills from a wall of monitors, casting thin shadows over the floor where wires knot and twist like black ivy. The fans whisper and whirr; the sound is steady, like breathing. Cold air slips in a stream from a metal grille, and the room smells faintly of antiseptic and stale coffee. Beeps rise and fall in a rhythm—soft, cautious, consistent—beeping and blinking, as if the machines are thinking for themselves.

On the central bench, there is a careful mess: cloudy anti-static bags, each bearing a barcode and a catalogue number; silver drives lined like coins; tweezers and cotton swabs; a magnifying lamp with a rim of cool light. Cables snake from a server to a write-blocker; from the write-blocker to a cluster of screens; from the screens back to the operator; back and forth. It looks tangled but it isn’t; clear labels hang from each lead, small flags of order in a dark, humming sea.

The far wall holds a whiteboard crowded with thin arrows and dates, a network of neat handwriting. In tidy capitals: CASE 27-91, TIMELINE, HASH VALUES. Who sent the message? When did the folder vanish? Why three logins at 03:12:57? A clipboard leans beneath it, its chain-of-custody form speckled with initials. Gloves squeak on plastic as someone turns a drive; the keyboard answers, click-clack. On one monitor a progress bar inches forward; on another, metadata blooms in pale turquoise columns. The cursor hesitates, then jumps; fragments align; a name appears.

Time feels strange in here. There are no windows—only screens—and the outside world shrinks to a thin line in the mind. The work is patient; meticulous; the opposite of dramatic. Yet it matters. In tiny timestamps and anonymous filenames, something human waits. The lab keeps its promise: look closely, look again, and patterns will surface.

Option B:

Autumn. The season of quiet endings; afternoons shrinking, pavements speckled with damp leaves, a thin silver light across the kitchen table. The kettle fussed itself toward a boil as I turned the charity shop novel over in my hands. It smelt of dust and apples (the old kind that live at the back of cupboards). Someone had written a name on the first page, then rubbed it out so hard the paper had thinned.

There was a ridge under the dust jacket, a crooked vein. My thumb found it and, without meaning to, picked. The glued edge gave with a sigh. A slip of paper fluttered down like a pale moth, landing by the spoon. Not a letter. Just tiny, careful numbers: 7-3-5, 12-1-9, 32-4-1. For a moment I only stared. Who hides a message inside a romance novel?

I made tea; I made a mess. Pencil shavings, steam, my notebook open. Page-line-word. It was a guess, but it fitted. On page seven, third line, fifth word: “Meet.” Page twelve, first line, ninth word: “me.” Page thirty-two, fourth line, first word: “at.” Slowly, stubbornly, the sentence shook itself out of the leaves of the book. Meet me by the blue gate. Sunday. Dusk. I sat back, feeling both foolish and oddly seen. The handwriting—thin and upright—matched the faint ticks in the margins that I had thought were nothing.

The blue gate was real; everyone in our town knew it, paint flaking in soft ribbons, half-hidden behind the bakery where the ovens breathed warm air even in winter. I told myself it might be an old game, a scavenger hunt that had expired years ago. Still, the idea tugged at me, like a sleeve. I pulled on my coat. Outside, the wind pressed its damp face to the glass, impatient. Dusk was closer than I had thought.

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

Option A:

In the low blue light, the lab looks underwater. Screens glow with pale rectangles, spilling cold colour over tangled wires. They loop like vines across the benches, coiling under keyboards, lodging in cups of pens. Fans whirr; a tired fridge-hum of machines that never sleep. The air is warm, it smells of dust and old coffee, and something faintly metallic. On the floor, a cable snakes around a swivel chair, as if to trip the careless.

At the centre, a long desk is mapped with evidence: bags crisp with labels, a row of silent hard drives, and sticky notes that lean like yellow flags. Numbers, dates, case names—boxed neatly, underlined twice. A whiteboard faces them with a web of arrows and IPs, a quick city of lines. On one screen, blue text scrolls slowly; on another, a progress bar creeps, then pauses, creeps, then pauses. The room breathes in; it breathes out.

Meanwhile, gloves sit beside a magnifying lamp, open hands waiting. The lamp makes a halo on a cracked phone. Every tap of the keyboard is soft rain; every click a tiny gate. Chain of custody. It sounds strict, and it has to be.

At the back, the server rack stands like a dark cupboard, peppered with little green eyes. They blink; they keep their own time. Wires are tied with plastic teeth. There is order here, in the mess. But in the swaying screens you feel it: secrets pressing forwards and backwards, asking to be found.

Option B:

Rain. It tapped the window of Gran's flat, a soft drumming that made the room feel smaller. I was meant to tidy the last corners before Mum came back. There was dust, thick and soft, lying like flour in the bottom of the old bookcase. Gran's picture frames leaned in a crooked line.

At first I only meant to wipe them and move on. But the biggest frame wobbled. The back was kept on by four bent clips; the cardboard had lifted, just a little. It felt like the room was holding it's breath. I slid a fingernail under the edge—careful, careful—and the back came away with a dry sigh. Something thin was tucked inside, folded square like a secret napkin.

I unfolded it. The paper was almost see-through, creased and yellow. Ink had faded to grey, letters leaning. There were two lines: Leave the house by midnight. The key is under the third stair; don't make a sound. Each word felt heavy. Who had written it? And who was it for?

The clock on the mantel ticked louder than before. It might have always ticked like that, but now it sounded like it was counting me down. I could close the frame, pretend I hadn't seen anything; go back to wiping dust and pretending everything in this flat was normal. But the message had got under my skin, a whisper waiting between my ribs. I slipped the paper into my pocket. Rain kept stitching the window, and the room felt different.

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

Option A:

The lab hums in the dark. Blue screens glare from every desk, throwing thin, ghostly light over metal shelves. Tangled wires drop like vines from the backs of towers; they loop and knot and make the floor a risky maze. It smells of warm plastic and coffee. The vent blows cold, the clipboard paper shivers. The screens are bright, they hurt your eyes if you stare too long.

In the centre, a long bench holds patient machines: black boxes with small green pulses; a write blocker, a labelled drive, evidence bags. On a chair, blue gloves wait like empty hands. Keyboards chatter, click-clack, like rain on a tin roof. At the back, a server cabinet breathes with a steady fan—not loud, but constant. On the whiteboard there are case numbers, arrows, hash values.

Finally, the people are quiet but busy. A woman leans close to a phone, her eyes tired, her mouse moving slow. What secrets hide in this silent glass? The lab feels serious, almost a library, yet the machines whisper and blink; they never sleep. I can almost taste a metalic tang of static, it prickles on my skin. Outside it is night; inside, time is turned over, step by step, until a picture comes clear.

Option B:

Rain tapped the library windows, slow and polite, like a teacher who won't go away. The room smelt of dust and glue. I wasn't meant to be in that corner; it was for Sixth Form only. On the bottom shelf I found a history book with a cracked spine. I opened it. The pages breathed a stale sigh. My fingers slid down the margin and felt a ridge, a seam, like a scar under skin. A page had been double—no, doubled—stuck together.

At first I stared. Then, using my nail, I peeled the edge apart, carefully, carefully, like lifting the lid on a secret. A thin strip fell out and fluttered to my shoe. The paper was yellow and delicate, and the writing was faint. It read: Look behind the clock.

My heart thudded. The clock above the door ticked louder. Was it a joke? Or a warning? I should put the paper back and leave, I should go now. But the room felt smaller. I could hear the rain count seconds on the glass. Still, I moved. The clock face had a crack like white lightning. I reached up and slid my hand behind it—dust, cobwebs, tape. My fingers caught a corner of something folded, something waiting.

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

Option A:

Dark room. Blue screens stare at me. Wires go everywhere like snakes. They tangle under the desks. There is wires on the floor and tape on the carpet. The air hums it is cold and kind of buzzing. I hear keys go click click click and sometimes a small beep from a box. It don't feel like day in here. I smell old coffee and plastic.

On the wall there is a white board with numbers and arrows. It looks like a game but it isn't, it is work, it is serious. Clear bags with old phones sit on a tray. Gloves are open like hands. Chairs roll a little on their own.

One big screen shows a map and dots move, stop, move. A fan spins and the light is blue, blue, blue. The clock keeps ticking and the lab keeps quiet; it keeps its secret.

Blue light everywhere.

Option B:

Morning. Toast, tea, and buses that cough down the road. I sit on my bed with a old book. I found it in the loft yesterday, it was dusty and it smelt like wet paper. I wipe the cover and dust floats like little clouds.

I open the book. The pages crack.

Then I see the writing.

Tiny writing on the edge of the page, it is pale and thin. It says look closer. It says my name. It is my name! My heart is like a drum. I dont know why it knows me so I lean in careful. The message is hiding between letters, the tall ones and the short ones make shapes. On the margin there are dots, they make a code. I try to join them with my finger but it smears and the pale words sort of run away like rain

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

Option A:

Dark room and screens. I see wires on the floor, they look like snakes and they twist. The moniters glow blue and green, blinking in the dark. It is cold and the air hums like a fridge. A chair rolls and squeeks. There is many evidence bags with lables and tape. A cup of cold coffee sits by a keybord, it smell bitter. The fans buzz and buzz and it makes my head full. On the wall a clock ticks, time feels slow here. Rain taps a small window. People click keys fast, I don't know what it is, just hard drives and files.

Option B:

The book was old and dusty. I blow on it and the dust goes up like smoke and it made me cough. I didnt mean to look inside but I did and a paper slid out. It was small and folded, like a secret. The letters were tiny and they went in a line and then another, but it didnt make sense. Meet me under the bridge at dark, the last line said. I look at the clock and it was not dark yet. My phone buzzed but the screen was cracked and I couldnt read it and a bus went past outside.