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 Kovrin talk?: affectionately and persuasively – 1 mark
• 1.2 What was Tanya doing with her shoulders?: twitching them – 1 mark
• 1.3 Why did Kovrin feel sorrier for Tanya?: because her grief was not a serious one, yet she suffered extremely – 1 mark
• 1.4 As though what had really befallen Tanya?: some terrible misfortune – 1 mark

Question 2 - Mark Scheme

Look in detail at this extract, from lines 76 to 108 of the source:

76 voices reached him indistinctly, and that reminded him of the black monk. Where, in what land or in what planet, was that optical absurdity moving now? Hardly had he recalled the legend and pictured in his imagination the

81 dark apparition he had seen in the rye-field, when, from behind a pine-tree exactly opposite, there came out noiselessly, without the slightest rustle, a man of

86 medium height with uncovered grey head, all in black, and barefooted like a beggar, and his black eyebrows stood out conspicuously on his pale, death-like face. Nodding his head graciously,

91 this beggar or pilgrim came noiselessly to the seat and sat down, and Kovrin recognised him as the black monk. For a minute they looked at one another, Kovrin with amazement, and the monk with

96 friendliness, and, just as before, a little slyness, as though he were thinking something to himself. "But you are a mirage," said Kovrin. "Why are you here and sitting still? That does not fit in with the legend."

101 "That does not matter," the monk answered in a low voice, not immediately turning his face towards him. "The legend, the mirage, and I are all the

106 products of your excited imagination. I am a phantom." "Then you don't exist?" said Kovrin.

How does the writer use language here to present the black monk’s appearance and manner? 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 sibilance and cumulative description render the monk uncannily tangible, citing "noiselessly, without the slightest rustle", the piled modifiers "all in black", "barefooted like a beggar", and "pale, death-like face" to create an eerie stillness and a grounded‑yet‑ghostly presence. It would also explore how the rhetorical question "Where, in what land or in what planet" and self‑reflexive spectral lexis—"optical absurdity," "mirage," "the products of your excited imagination," "I am a phantom"—alongside contradictory mannerisms ("friendliness" with "a little slyness," a "low voice," "not immediately turning his face towards him") present an unsettling, ambiguous authority that blurs legend and reality.

The writer presents the black monk as simultaneously unreal and genteel through a precise lexical field and delicate sound. The noun phrase “optical absurdity” fuses a scientific register with irrationality, making his appearance seem paradoxical. This cluster of spectral lexis—“dark apparition”, “mirage”, “phantom”—categorises him as insubstantial, so when he “came out… noiselessly” the reader accepts his impossibility. The similes “barefooted like a beggar” and “pale, death-like face” sharpen his look: humility is foregrounded by the beggar comparison, while “death-like” chills the image, suggesting asceticism and corpse-like stillness. Colour contrast—“black eyebrows” against a “pale” face—creates chiaroscuro, and the plosive alliteration in “black… barefooted… beggar” hammers home his severe, monastic austerity.

Moreover, sound is erased, marking his unearthly manner. The adverb “noiselessly,” repeated, and the sibilant “without the slightest rustle” whisper an absence of friction, his movement seeming frictionless and supernatural. Yet his behaviour is civil: “Nodding his head graciously” and looking with “friendliness” signal courtesy, while the hinted “slyness” creates ambivalence.

Furthermore, dialogue and sentence form present him as controlled and analytical. He speaks in a “low voice,” and the negative adverbial “not immediately turning his face” implies deliberate detachment. His calm declaratives—“I am a phantom”—and the tricolon “The legend, the mirage, and I” give him philosophical poise. The earlier rhetorical question, “Where, in what land or in what planet…?” and the inverted opener “Hardly had he recalled…” heighten the uncanny arrival, presenting him as ethereal in appearance yet composed in manner.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Shows clear understanding; explains effects; relevant detail; clear and accurate terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 3 response would clearly explain that adverbs and sensory imagery present the monk as uncanny and quiet: noiselessly and without the slightest rustle create an unnatural silence, while visual details like all in black and a pale, death-like face make him seem ghostly. It would also identify the rhetorical question Where, in what land or in what planet and labels such as optical absurdity, mirage, and phantom to emphasise unreality, with the contrast between friendliness and a little slyness hinting at a deceptively calm, possibly deceptive manner.

The writer uses a simile and vivid noun phrases to shape the monk’s eerie appearance. Calling him a “dark apparition” and “all in black” builds a sinister impression, while “barefooted like a beggar” suggests humility and strangeness at once. The colour contrast in “black eyebrows… on his pale, death-like face” emphasises how corpse-like he looks, and the adverb “conspicuously” makes those features unnervingly prominent to the reader.

Furthermore, adverbs and repetition present his manner as unnaturally quiet yet courteous. He comes “noiselessly, without the slightest rustle,” the repeated silence creating a ghostly calm. By “Nodding his head graciously,” the adverb “graciously” softens him, but the juxtaposition “with friendliness … and… a little slyness” hints at concealed motives. His “low voice” and not “immediately turning his face” suggest control and detachment.

Additionally, a semantic field of illusion underlines his uncanny presence. The rhetorical question “Where… in what planet” conveys wonder at this “optical absurdity,” and his direct speech uses simple declaratives: “I am a phantom.” The list “The legend, the mirage, and I” reinforces unreality. Overall, language presents a figure whose deathly appearance and soft, sly manner are both alluring and disturbing.

Level 2 (Some understanding and comment) – 3–4 marks Attempts to comment on effects; some appropriate detail; some use of terminology. Indicative Standard: A typical Level 2 response identifies descriptive choices such as the adverbs “noiselessly” and the phrase “without the slightest rustle” to show his eerily silent movement, and visual details like “all in black”, the simile “barefooted like a beggar”, and “pale, death-like face” to make him seem poor and ghost-like. It also notices dialogue calling him a “mirage” and “phantom”, and mentions his “low voice”, slight “slyness”, and how he nods “graciously”, suggesting a calm but unsettling manner.

The writer uses imagery to show the monk’s ghostly appearance. He is a “dark apparition” with a “pale, death-like face”. The simile “barefooted like a beggar” makes him seem poor and odd, while the black clothing creates a cold, unreal look.

Furthermore, adverbs present his manner. He comes “noiselessly, without the slightest rustle”; this repetition of silence makes him seem supernatural. “Nodding his head graciously” and a “low voice” show calm politeness, but it still feels eerie.

Additionally, the writer uses a rhetorical question and illusion words. “Where, in what land...” and nouns like “mirage” and “phantom” build unreality. The contrast of “friendliness” with “a little slyness” suggests he is kind yet deceptive, which unsettles the reader.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple comment; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer uses words and phrases like “noiselessly”, “pale, death-like face”, and the simile “barefooted like a beggar” to show the monk as quiet, ghostly, and strange. The question “Where, in what land or in what planet” and labels like “mirage” and “phantom” make him seem unreal and mysterious.

The writer uses a simile to present appearance: “barefooted like a beggar” and the adjectives “pale, death-like face”. This makes the monk seem poor and ghostly. Furthermore, the adverbs and repetition “noiselessly, without the slightest rustle” show his manner of moving silently, which makes him feel unreal. “Nodding his head graciously” also suggests he is calm and polite. Additionally, the metaphorical words “mirage”, “phantom” and “optical absurdity”, plus the question “Then you don’t exist?” create doubt. This presents the black monk as mysterious and strange to the reader.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Rhetorical questioning and paradox (“optical absurdity”) cast him as otherworldly and unreal, suggesting a vision beyond normal experience: optical absurdity
• Gothic lexis frames him as spectral and legendary, blurring reality with myth to shape a haunting presence: dark apparition
• Correlative structure creates instant manifestation, implying that thought conjures form and heightening the uncanny immediacy: Hardly had he recalled
• Auditory imagery and sibilance present an unnaturally stealthy arrival, intensifying eerie calm and control: without the slightest rustle
• Stark colour contrast makes his look corpse-like and ominous, sharpening the visual shock of his presence: pale, death-like face
• Simile and labels humanise yet estrange him, suggesting humble asceticism and an ambiguous social/spiritual role: beggar or pilgrim
• Courteous manner softens the threat, but politeness fused with silence keeps him uncanny and self-possessed: Nodding his head graciously
• Juxtaposed attitudes present him as amiable yet secretive, hinting at concealed purpose beneath calm civility: a little slyness
• Measured tone and self-erasure make him serenely unreal, as he defines himself as insubstantial: I am a phantom
• Interrogatives foreground his defiance of expected legend, marking him as anomalous within his own story: does not fit in

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 ambiguity?

You could write about:

• how ambiguity intensifies 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 perceptively tracks the structural arc from reconciliation ("There, there", "as though nothing had happened") through the dusk-blurred transition ("shades of evening", "indistinctly") to the uncanny, where memory conjures the "black monk" ("from behind a pine-tree ... came out noiselessly"), and the self-reflexive exchanges ("the legend, the mirage ... I am a phantom", "Then you don't exist?") intensify ambiguity by collapsing reality and imagination.

One way in which the writer has structured the text to create a sense of ambiguity is by opening in medias res with interrupted dialogue and ellipses (“I … only said that…”), withholding exposition about “he” and the cause. Combined with sustained internal focalisation through Kovrin, the reader receives mediated, partial information (“He felt …”), creating epistemic uncertainty. The rapid pacification—“At last she left off crying”—seems to resolve the thread, yet the very neatness feels provisional, foreshadowing instability and priming us to doubt the apparent domestic equilibrium.

In addition, the section break (“V”) engineers a tonal and generic pivot: from domestic realism to the uncanny. As evening “shades” fall, temporal progression slows; auditory motifs (violin, “singing voices”) blur boundaries and trigger analepsis to the “legend” of the black monk. This recollective shift reactivates an earlier narrative thread and prepares a volte-face in focus when the apparition materialises “noiselessly” from “behind a pine-tree.” The incremental build—from memory to embodiment—sustains ambiguity over whether this is hallucination or intrusion of the supernatural, while the calm garden setting ironises the disturbance to come.

A further structural strategy is to withhold resolution at the point of encounter. The detailed, realist staging of the figure (“barefooted… pale, death-like face”) sits in deliberate juxtaposition with the monk’s meta-commentary (“I am a phantom”), a paradox that collapses ontological certainty. The dialogue form accelerates pace into a clinching question—“Then you don’t exist?”—which functions as a cliff-hanger. Ending on an unanswered interrogative intensifies ambiguity by denying closure, while the earlier hints at Kovrin’s “overstrained nerves” retrospectively cast doubt on everything we have been shown.

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 domestic calm to uncanny uncertainty: Tanya moves from 'crying' to 'laughing aloud' and life resumes 'as though nothing had happened', before normality is disrupted by the monk’s 'noiselessly' sudden appearance and labels like 'optical absurdity', 'mirage', 'phantom', which blur reality. It would also note the close focus on Kovrin’s perceptions ('he heard', 'pictured') and the closing question 'Then you don't exist?', showing ambiguity intensifies by the end.

One way the writer structures ambiguity is by opening in medias res with fractured dialogue (“I … only said that”), so the initial focus is partial. The third-person limited viewpoint centres on Kovrin, whose calm reassurance clashes with Tanya’s sobbing, while the narrator downplays it as “not a serious” grief. This tonal contrast confuses our judgement. The quick shift from quarrel to laughter is a false resolution that unsettles certainty.

In addition, a clear section break (“V”) and a shift in setting and time reset the pace. Temporal markers—“When the shades of evening began falling”—slow the action, and distant sounds become “indistinct,” creating a liminal mood. Kovrin’s internal question about the “optical absurdity” immediately precedes the monk’s arrival (“Hardly had he recalled…”), so thought and event are sequenced to blur reality with imagination.

A further structural choice is an end-focused juxtaposition. The monk is rendered in concrete physical detail (“uncovered grey head… barefooted”), yet he asserts, “I am a phantom.” Because the narrative stays internally focalised through Kovrin, we cannot verify him. The passage closes on the unresolved interrogative, “Then you don’t exist?”, withholding closure and intensifying the ambiguity at the end.

Level 2 (Some understanding and comment) – 3–4 marks Attempts to comment; some examples; some terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 2 response would note how the writer shifts from Tanya’s quick reconciliation—she goes from "left off crying" to "laughing aloud" and walking "as though nothing had happened"—to a darker, uncertain mood as the "shades of evening" fall, he recalls the "optical absurdity", and the "black monk" "came noiselessly". It would also point out that ambiguity intensifies through questions and contradictions, with Kovrin calling it "a mirage" and the monk saying "I am a phantom", ending on "Then you don't exist?" to leave it unresolved.

One way the writer structures the text to create ambiguity is by beginning with a clear, everyday problem and mood. The focus stays on Tanya’s crying and then reconciliation, moving from tears to laughter. This calm ending to the scene makes the later strange moment feel uncertain.

In addition, there is a change in time and setting (“When the shades of evening…”) and a shift in focus from social sounds (“visitors were arriving”, violin) to the sudden entrance “from behind a pine-tree” of the black monk. This contrast and the quick change of pace make us unsure if the figure is a normal visitor or a vision.

A further structural feature is the limited perspective and the ending. Kovrin recalls the “legend,” then the monk appears, blurring memory and reality. The dialogue finishes on a question, “Then you don’t exist?”, so ambiguity is intensified at the end.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 1 response might notice the shift from Tanya crying, then laughing and acting as though nothing had happened, to the sudden appearance of the black monk, which changes the mood. Ending with mentions of the legend, mirage, and I am a phantom makes the reader unsure what is real, so ambiguity increases at the end.

One way in which the writer structures ambiguity is by shifting focus. It moves from a family quarrel to the sudden appearance of the black monk, which makes the reader unsure.

In addition, the structure changes the mood over time. After reconciliation and visitors arriving, we follow Kovrin thinking alone in the evening. This focus on his thoughts makes us unsure if the monk is real.

A further feature is the ending. The dialogue becomes a question, "Then you don't exist?", which is a cliffhanger. Ending on a question leaves the situation ambiguous for the reader.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Fragmented in medias res dialogue and ellipses withhold key details, immediately creating uncertainty about the quarrel’s cause (I ... only said).
• Prolonged emotional distress followed by swift composure shifts the pacing, making the seriousness of events feel unstable (left off crying).
• Abrupt tonal reset to domestic normality undercuts prior intensity, suggesting the conflict’s reality is questionable (as though nothing had happened).
• Consistent internal focalisation through Kovrin frames events through a possibly unreliable mind, deepening doubt about what we witness (half-sick, overstrained nerves).
• A section break and relocation mark a structural pivot from social scene to solitude, priming a more uncertain register (V).
• Time shift into twilight and a blurred soundscape create a liminal zone where perception is less certain (indistinctly).
• Causal hinge links thought to event; the recalled legend is immediately followed by the apparition, leaving causality ambiguous (Hardly had he recalled).
• The monk’s entrance is eerily quiet and frictionless, making his physical presence itself doubtful (without the slightest rustle).
• Self-referential dialogue asserts unreality while provoking further doubt, refusing to resolve existence either way (I am a phantom).
• A rhetorical question destabilises place and scale, widening uncertainty beyond the garden to an undefined realm (what planet).

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 description of the black monk's 'death-like face' makes him sound very frightening. The writer suggests that because the monk is actually calm and friendly, the scene becomes more strange and unsettling.

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

In your response, you could:

• consider your impressions of the black monk
• comment on the methods the writer uses to portray the black monk
• support your response with references to the text. [20 marks]

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

Evaluate texts critically and support with appropriate textual references.

Level 4 (Perceptive, detailed evaluation) – 16–20 marks Perceptive ideas; perceptive methods; critical detail on impact; judicious detail. Indicative Standard: A Level 4 response would largely agree, arguing that the writer engineers an uncanny dissonance by juxtaposing the monk’s macabre appearance—all in black, black eyebrows on a death-like face—with a calm, graciously nodding friendliness tinged with slyness, while his arrival noiselessly and barefooted like a beggar makes that warmth feel abnormal rather than reassuring. It would also note the self-reflexive dialogue—I am a phantom, products of your excited imagination—which relocates threat from the supernatural to Kovrin’s psyche, intensifying the strangeness and unease.

I largely agree with the statement. The writer initially frames the black monk in frightening, almost funereal terms, yet the monk’s composure and courtesy make the encounter feel less like a threat and more like an uncanny disturbance of reality, which is ultimately more unsettling.

Visually, the monk is encoded through a semantic field of death and darkness. He emerges “from behind a pine-tree exactly opposite” and “came out noiselessly, without the slightest rustle,” which gives him a supernatural stillness. The colour imagery—“all in black,” with “black eyebrows” stark against a “pale, death-like face”—creates a chiaroscuro effect that suggests a corpse animated. The repeated adverb “noiselessly” and the cumulative syntax (“with uncovered grey head, all in black, and barefooted like a beggar”) build an inexorable, spectral presence. Even the deictic precision of “exactly opposite” sharpens his immediacy, intensifying the reader’s apprehension.

However, that deathly tableau is immediately undercut by an incongruously gentle demeanour. He nods “graciously,” sits “like a beggar or pilgrim,” and regards Kovrin “with friendliness, and, just as before, a little slyness.” The tonal juxtaposition here—macabre visage paired with courtesy—produces cognitive dissonance. The monk’s “low voice” and the detail that he speaks “not immediately turning his face” register as calm and controlled; yet the delayed movement is subtly abnormal, nudging the scene into the uncanny. The noun choices “beggar” and “pilgrim” connote humility and piety, complicating any straightforward fear response and making the figure feel paradoxical rather than monstrous.

Structurally, the writer orchestrates a drift into unreality. The soundscape recedes from the social world—“the rattle of a carriage and a feminine laugh”—to “violin and singing voices” heard “indistinctly,” then to the apparition’s absolute “noiseless[ness].” This progression, alongside the twilight (“the shades of evening began falling”), functions as a kind of pathetic fallacy, ushering Kovrin toward liminality. Crucially, the dialogue destabilises the ontological ground: the monk contradicts the “legend,” calls himself “a phantom,” and asserts that he is a “product of your excited imagination.” That metanarrative self-awareness—paired with Kovrin’s earlier “half-sick, overstrained nerves”—recasts the monk’s friendliness as insidious: the apparition colludes with Kovrin’s fragility, which is more disquieting than overt menace.

Overall, the “death-like face” certainly signals fright; yet the stronger effect arises from the disjunction between morbid appearance and amicable bearing, and from the scene’s slide into silence and self-doubt. To a great extent, I agree: the monk’s calm civility makes the encounter stranger and more unsettling than simple fear.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant evaluation) – 11–15 marks Clear ideas; clear methods; clear evaluation of impact; relevant references. Indicative Standard: I largely agree: the monk’s 'pale, death-like face' and the way he comes 'noiselessly' are sinister, yet his 'nodding his head graciously', 'friendliness', and 'low voice' make the calm feel odd, so the contrast makes the scene more unsettling. A typical Level 3 response would identify this contrast (e.g., 'barefooted like a beggar' versus the self-aware 'I am a phantom') and clearly explain how these details support the writer’s viewpoint.

I largely agree with the statement. The monk’s appearance is initially frightening, but the writer’s choice to make him calm and even courteous makes the encounter feel uncanny and more unsettling than a straightforward horror moment.

Structurally, the scene shifts from a homely reconciliation to a liminal twilight. After Kovrin’s “peacemaker” success and the image of Tanya and her father “eating rye bread with salt,” the “shades of evening” fall and music is heard “indistinctly.” This setting and the rhetorical question “Where, in what land or in what planet…?” create a strange, in‑between mood that prepares us for the apparition. The monk’s entrance “noiselessly, without the slightest rustle” uses repetition and sound imagery to suggest something unnatural.

On first description, the monk is made to sound frightening. The colour imagery and adjectives—“all in black,” “black eyebrows,” and the “pale, death-like face”—belong to a semantic field of death and menace. The simile “barefooted like a beggar” also makes him uncanny, as if out of place and otherworldly. However, this is immediately juxtaposed with reassuring behaviour: he nods “graciously” and looks at Kovrin with “friendliness,” even speaking in a “low voice.” This contrast between threatening appearance and gentle manner is deliberately dissonant. The tiny detail of “a little slyness” undercuts the friendliness, suggesting hidden knowledge, which increases the reader’s unease.

Dialogue reinforces the strangeness. Kovrin’s rational protest—“But you are a mirage”—meets the monk’s calm, confident claim, “I am a phantom.” The terminology “optical absurdity” and “excited imagination” frames the monk as both impossible and persuasive, so the tone becomes eerie rather than comforting. The narrative focalisation through Kovrin—his “amazement,” not outright terror—adds to the uncanny mood.

Overall, I agree to a great extent. The “death-like” imagery does make the monk frightening, but it is precisely his calm, courteous presence and philosophical speech that make the scene more strange and unsettling than a simple scare.

Level 2 (Some evaluation) – 6–10 marks Some understanding; some methods; some evaluative comments; some references. Indicative Standard: A Level 2 answer would partly agree, noting the monk seems frightening because of "death-like face" and "all in black". It would also mention his calm, friendly manner ("nodding his head graciously", "with friendliness", "in a low voice") and say simply that this contrast makes the meeting feel strange and unsettling.

I mostly agree with the statement, because the monk is first pictured in a frightening way but behaves gently, which makes the meeting feel uncanny. The writer builds a dark mood as “the shades of evening began falling,” and then presents the monk “all in black,” with “black eyebrows” on a “pale, death-like face.” This colour imagery and the adjective “death-like” suggest coldness and even a hint of the grave, so my first impression is fear.

However, his manner is unexpectedly calm. He appears “noiselessly, without the slightest rustle,” and “nodding his head graciously,” which sounds polite rather than threatening. The adverb “noiselessly” feels unnatural, so his quiet behaviour makes things more strange, not safer. The simile “barefooted like a beggar” also gives him a humble look, which clashes with his terrifying face. The writer heightens this by contrasting sound and silence: just before, there are the “rattle of a carriage” and “violin and singing voices,” but the monk moves in silence. This structural shift makes the encounter feel unreal.

Dialogue adds to the unease. Kovrin says, “you are a mirage,” and the monk’s “low voice” admits, “I am a phantom.” The friendly look—“with friendliness, and, just as before, a little slyness”—suggests he knows more than he says, which unsettles the reader.

Overall, I agree to a great extent. The scary appearance and the gentle, quiet manner work together through contrast to make the scene eerie and disconcerting.

Level 1 (Simple, limited) – 1–5 marks Simple ideas; limited methods; simple evaluation; simple references. Indicative Standard: At Level 1, a response simply agrees that the writer makes the monk frightening through his "death-like face" and being "all in black", but also notes he appears "noiselessly" and looks "with friendliness", which makes the scene seem strange and unsettling.

I agree to a large extent. The writer makes the black monk seem scary at first by how he looks and moves. The adjective “death-like” in “pale, death-like face” makes him sound like a corpse. The colour imagery “all in black” and his “black eyebrows” also suggests darkness. He comes “noiselessly” from behind a tree, which feels creepy, and the simile “barefooted like a beggar” makes him look strange and out of place. The evening setting and “dark apparition” idea add to the fear.

However, when he acts, he is calm and even kind, which makes the moment feel odd. He is “nodding his head graciously” and looks with “friendliness,” and he speaks in a “low voice.” This contrast between a scary face and gentle behaviour is unsettling. The dialogue also makes it weird: he tells Kovrin “I am a phantom,” so he is friendly but also not real. Kovrin’s “amazement” shows how confusing it is.

Overall, I agree that the frightening description and the monk’s calm manner together make the scene more strange and unsettling.

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:

• Graphic facial detail heightens fear → corpse-like impression provokes alarm (death-like face)
• Juxtaposed calm demeanour subverts that fear → friendliness makes the terror feel uncanny; this largely supports the statement (with friendliness)
• Unnatural silence enhances ghostliness → his arrival feels inhuman and chilling (without the slightest rustle)
• Ascetic, beggar-like appearance unsettles → hints at otherness and vulnerability rather than overt threat, deepening ambiguity (barefooted like a beggar)
• Liminal evening soundscape intensifies strangeness → everyday festivity contrasts with an eerie visitation, increasing disquiet (shades of evening)
• Self-identification as unreal destabilises certainty → rational explanation paradoxically deepens unease (I am a phantom)
• Discrepancy with the legend breeds cognitive dissonance → expectations collapse, heightening the uncanny (does not fit in)
• Subtle ambiguity in expression complicates “friendly” → possible hidden intent keeps him disquieting (a little slyness)
• Psychological framing shifts fear inward → the mind becomes the source of threat, making the scene more unsettling (excited imagination)
• Stark visual contrast shocks the eye → unnatural clarity of features startles and disturbs (stood out conspicuously)

Question 5 - Mark Scheme

A town archive is creating a display about local working lives and wants creative submissions.

Choose one of the options below for your entry.

• Option A: Describe an old cinema projection room from your imagination. You may choose to use the picture provided for ideas:

• Option B: Write the opening of a story about saying goodbye to a workplace.

(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:

Above the velvet hush of the auditorium, the projection room loiters, private and stubborn, behind a fire door with wired glass. The paint on the door has blistered into islands; a narrow sign—NO ADMITTANCE—leans by one brass screw, as if too weary to insist. Inside, the air is warm with the mineral tang of metal and the sweet, singed breath of old film; dust waits in soft drifts along skirting and sill, waiting for the light that will make it visible. It is a room that seems to hold itself, holding its breath until summoned.

At the centre squats the projector—cast iron and confidence—black lacquer chipped to a pale underbone. The porthole ahead is a single, watchful eye; through it, the rectangle of the screen glows blankly, like a white shore beyond an inlet. Empty reels hang in expectant circles, idle halos, while sprocket teeth glint with tidy malice. The lens is capped, asleep; yet it promises a blade of brilliance keen enough to shear the soft fabric of dark. When the fan stirs (even at rest it murmurs), a slow roll of warm air carries the faintest whisper of ozone.

Shelves line the walls: dented film cans stencilled in flaking white; paper labels curling; someone's brisk cursive—Reel 3: replace cue. Leader spills from a drawer like a nest of pale snakes, numbers counting down in grey: 10…9…8… The splicing bench is a minor altar. On the bench: a cold, scarred block; a splice press mottled with adhesive; chinagraph pencils worn flat; tape strips laddered like rungs. A schedule is pinned by drawing pins and habit, Sunday's matinee ringed firmly. A square clock metes out the air; its slow tick is a metronome for light. Coffee mug arcs have fossilised on the wood; an ashtray still broods with a dusty stub (someone’s dead habit). Below, meanwhile, the auditorium breathes: a cough loosens; the hush is bruised by a ribbon of laughter, quickly smoothed. They do not look up; they never do; they trust the unseen keeper.

Here the craft has its rituals. The bell by the porthole—brass, obstinate—once chimed at the coy arrival of cue-dots: tiny constellations granting leave for changeover. Fingers knew this room the way sailors read weather; thread the leader through gate and roller, feel the perforations accept each sprocket, hover over the dowser, count: two, one—and release. The fan’s complaint settles into its long hymn; whirr and click; whirr and click; whirr and click.

I lay a palm on the projector; the metal holds last night's chill. When the toggle lifts, the booth answers with a sober thrum, a small rousing. The lamp hawks a breath; the lens uncaps; a sickle of light scythes outward and a universe appears—galaxies of dust, tumbling, urgent, each mote briefly blazing, then nothing. Heat blooms, bringing with it caramelled cellulose and oil, a scent that is almost tender. Below, the screen waits, a pale, eager rectangle. I do not thread a print. Instead, I watch the beam surrender, the thrum diminish, the room returning—reluctantly—to its patient quiet.

This booth is a time capsule, yes; a relic, if one is unkind. Nevertheless, its small scuffs are a vocabulary: every scratch on the worktop a tiny narrative, every dented tin a promise half-kept. When the door soft-closes, the smell remains, and so does the sense that this cramped, scuffed chamber is the cinema’s true heart; it beats in the dark, steadily, even when nobody listens.

Option B:

Even the fluorescent lights seemed to soften on my last afternoon; the office exhaled. The clock at the far end—round, impassive, slightly askew—unspooled the remaining minutes with an indifferent tick. The printer coughed, swallowing a jam as though it, too, had nerves. Rain brushed the windows, turning the car park into a blurred watercolour. I stood at my desk in a pool of paperclips and dust and told myself, quietly and without drama: it is time.

The cardboard box had stapled corners and smelt faintly of warehouse and winter. Into it went my desk life: the shy plant, the mug with a galaxy of stains, the knitted owl that passed for motivation, a stress ball. I looped cables (mains leads, tethering wires) as if they were snakes; I laid each object like a pressed leaf. Meanwhile, the server cupboard hummed a lullaby, indifferent to my rearrangement of the smallest world.

People came in gusts. Harriet pressed a card into my hands, then laughed too loudly—her eyes were wet. Raj hovered, his handshake warm, his sentences stalling, restarting: You’ll smash it; they’re lucky; we will miss you. “Keep in touch,” we chorused, knowing the phrase tends to evaporate. Goodbye to the coffee queue debates at 9:54; goodbye to impromptu fire drills and earnest meetings about biscuits; goodbye, for now, to belonging that arrives—unexpectedly—on a Wednesday with a team email.

I arrived on a sodden October morning, breath clouding, lanyard tight against my pulse. The building seemed enormous, a labyrinth of carpet tiles; even the air had a corporate scent—toner and pine cleaner. Who was I at the revolving doors, nervous? A trainee with a new notebook and an alphabet of ambitions. Years later, my notebook is scuffed, my ambitions less alphabetical. I have learned the mathematics of office life: copy, paste, persevere; question gently; bring cake.

In the corridor, the noticeboard flapped a corner—wellbeing workshop, lunchtime Pilates, a lost scarf. I swiped my badge for the last time and listened for the two-tone affirmation; the little green light acquiesced. The lift smelt of cold metal and citrus cleaner; its mirrored walls held my face, multiplied. On the way down, the numbers descended with solemnity: 6, 5, 4—each floor a chapter heading I was no longer obliged to read.

The lobby’s revolving door nudged me into rain-sweet air. Behind me, the building glowed a steady amber. I balanced the box on my hip; it felt heavier than physics allowed—dense with conversations it could not carry. For a moment I stood beneath the awning and let the city unspool: buses hushed by wet, a siren practising scales. I nearly didn’t look back; then I did. The light above Reception blinked red, green, red; a small semaphore that, impertinently, felt like goodbye.

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

Option A:

The door sticks; when it gives, the room exhales a dry, dusty sigh. Light slices through a high, narrow pane, catching a drift of motes in a restless ballet. The air smells of warmed metal and old celluloid, sweet yet acrid, like paper singed—almost burning, never quite. The walls are a tired cream, blistered and crazed; paint peels in scrolls that reveal a greyer undercoat. Underfoot, the floor is gritty; each step murmurs. Silence pools in the corners.

In the centre, the projector squats—part machine, part memory. Its lens, a single glass eye, stares at the little window; its body wears a mottled patina, enamel pocked and proud. Vents rib its sides like gills. Belts hang slack as a sleepy grin. Levers and toggles bristle from the console: knurled knobs, a clacking switch, the cautious lever that once woke the lamp. Edges are burnished by decades of work: fingerprints have become polish. A tiny brass plate names a maker long retired.

On bowed shelves, tin cans squat in ragged rows, their labels sun-bleached, pencilled titles thinning to whispers: Newsreel 1962; Matinee; Cartoon; Feature. Lift a lid and a ribbon of film springs, curling like a dried fern; the sprocket holes are neat, and the frames flicker with miniature faces trapped mid-syllable. Beside them rests the splicer, its jaws nicked; a brush with amber cement stands at attention. A low stool waits under the bench; a mug ring smirks on the wood. Everything keeps its place, as if dismissed only for a moment.

The window to the auditorium is small, square, and smudged. Beyond it, there is only velveteen dark, a blank where light used to fall. Once, at the tug of that switch, the room would tremble, then purr, then roar—steady, steady, steady. The shutter would scissor; the gate would chatter; sprockets would bite the perforations with tidy zeal. The arc would bloom white, merciless and lovely, and a thin stream of heat would rise; the smell would sharpen; dust would whirl in the beam slipping through the aperture.

There are human ghosts without drama: a cardigan folded over a chair, a pencil stub left for later. The clock ticks as if reluctant. Time loops politely, like film making its calm circuit from feed to take-up. It feels, almost, like a chapel to moving light: a small sanctuary built of habit and hum. Dust falls slowly, silently; it falls and falls. If you breathe shallowly, you can almost hear applause that never reaches the room.

Option B:

Friday: I arrived earlier than usual, not because I had more to do, but because I had more to leave behind. The automatic doors sighed, drawing me in one last time. Strip lights spread a pale sheen; screens woke reluctantly; the air-conditioning murmured its hymn. Outside, the city rehearsed; inside, the office held its breath. I stood by my desk as if approaching a shoreline I'd spent years building—papers like shingle.

I began with the small things: paperclips, rubber bands, a drawer of orphaned batteries. My mug, feathered with tea stains; the succulent that forgave neglect and still lifted its powdered leaves; the lanyard with my name rubbed almost smooth. What do you take when you leave a place that has borrowed your hours? I sorted what was mine and what belonged to the shared mythology—the blue stapler, the hole-punch. By ten, my life was three cardboard boxes and a wrinkled Post-it: 'Don't forget to breathe.'

Colleagues arrived in eddies. Lucy from HR came with cake and glittering nails; Amir hovered with a joke ready; my manager stood with that careful kindness that hinted at calendars behind her eyes. We signed the card—bold signatures elbowing shy, apologetic ones—and someone stuck a gold star by my name. Photographs were taken, our smiles remembering their choreography. Promises fell lightly: 'We must do lunch; come back on a Friday; I'll send you the link'—sincere then, soluble later. I was grateful; I was sad; I was ready—though the word tasted too clean.

When it was time, I gave my lanyard to security. Its plastic lozenge looked smaller in his palm than it had against my chest. The barrier beeped without opening, a neat, electronic full stop. In the lift, descending numbers blinked like private farewells; my reflection multiplied and thinned, as if even the metal were practising letting go. Some part of me wanted to press G and also Back—as if movement could be edited.

Outside, the air felt less filtered, grainy with rain. The street moved with its usual indifference: buses yawned; pigeons argued; a cyclist skimmed a puddle and wore the splash like a medal. My bag was heavier with objects yet lighter with obligation; the imbalance steadied me. Behind me, the building held, barely disturbed. It was not a cliff-edge but a shore at low tide: I stepped across the glistening line where my footprints ended and the water remembered them. I turned towards the station and stepped into the next chapter.

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

Option A:

The door sticks at the first nudge, then gives with a sigh, and the projection room exhales a warm breath of oil, dust, and something faintly sour—old film. Dust hangs in the narrow bar of light from the porthole, turning slowly like drifting planets. A single strip light hums, its tired glow puddling on paint the colour of nicotine. It is not a big room, but everything feels weighty: metal, glass, a history of flicker packed into shelves and corners.

The projector squats at the centre like a patient animal, all steel plates and polished knobs, an eye of glass aimed toward the square slit in the wall. Spools rest on their arms; drive belts loop and sag. Sprockets show tiny, precise teeth, waiting. When it runs—it seems to murmur even now—the rhythm builds: whirr, click; a breath. Light would lance across the room, drag a ribbon of dust with it, and slide through the porthole into the expectant dark beyond.

Around it, evidence of steady hands and late nights: a splicing block bolted to the bench; the silver blade dulled by careful use; loops of leader ribbon curled like shed skins. Tin canisters, dented and labelled in bleeding ink, lean against the skirting; their stamped lids wink under the dim bulb. On the wall, a timetable in smudged pencil lists showtimes and cue dots. There is a stool with a split seat, a cardigan on the hook, a mug ringed into the worktop.

The smell is layered. Hot dust, machine oil, that peculiar vinegar of ageing film, and the ghost of cold tea. It smells of hot dust, old film and tea, the scent clings to everything. Fingers would come away grey if they trailed the sill. The window itself—no more than a square porthole framed by chipped putty—looks into darkness that was once crowded with faces. Now the machine rests. Its fan is silent; its gate is empty, but a faint pulse remains: the tick of cooling metal, the tired hiss of the strip light, the soft settling of dust. The door eases shut and the room folds back into its waiting.

Option B:

Friday. The hour of endings; mugs rinsed and turned upside down, screens going dim one by one as if the building were closing its eyes. The printer stuttered, coughed out a last sheet; someone laughed in the kitchen—a thin, tinny sound that bounced off the glass and went nowhere. A scent of disinfectant threaded through the spent coffee and microwave curry. Even the lifts sighed.

I stood over my desk and began the small, ceremonious work of leaving. The cardboard box was softer at the corners than it should have been, nicked from the stationery cupboard, and it gaped as if surprised by what I was putting into it: a chipped mug with a sun faded logo, a pebble from Brighton, three anonymous chargers, the plant that had heroically survived the air-conditioning (just). Paperclips skittered like silver fish across the veneer as I pulled open the drawer; there were receipts, a cracked badge, a lanyard threaded with years of corridor conversations.

People came and went, hovering at diagonals, offering smiles and comments that tried to be casual. “You’ll be brilliant,” said Aisha, squeezing my arm, and her perfume followed her away like a thought that hadn’t finished. Darren shook my hand too hard; he always did. The card was heavy with ink and in-jokes—You’ll miss my spreadsheets!—and there, in neat, cautious letters, my manager had written: Thank you for everything. I read it twice, searching the white between the lines for the words she wouldn’t say.

My chair, unlovely as it was, had my shape in it. The screen reflected a ghost of me; I mouthed goodbye to the faint outline, then clicked Send on the final email. Out of Office set, desk clean, wires coiled; it felt, strangely, like packing a version of myself away. On my first day here, I had been small and breathless, carrying a too-large ambition on shoulders that ached. Now—now I was heavier with knowledge and lighter with certainty. But what is certainty, anyway, when you step into a corridor that looks the same and is not?

At the door, the lanyard snagged. Finally, one last click; colder air tugged at my coat.

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

Option A:

Dust hangs in the beam like slow snow, turning the narrow room into a pale tunnel. Beneath the steady hum of a tired fan, the projector waits; its body is scratched, its belts slack but ready. The lens, round and glassy, catches a sliver of light as if it could blink. Heat leaks from the lamp housing—a small sun under tin; the air is warm and dry, tasting of grease and old cloth. A motor ticks. The room is cramped, but careful.

On metal shelves, reels are stacked like coins, their paper labels curling at the corners, names in faded ink. A strip of film dangles, frames like tiny windows; lift it and colours ghost through your fingers. Everything carries a coating of memory: a soft patina of dust, fingerprints frozen on chrome, a brown crescent where a mug once sat. Switches line the console—chunky, serious—beside dials that twitch when touched. A coiled cable sleeps by the phone; a cracked stool leans toward the controls.

At the far wall, a long slit of glass peers into the auditorium; it is a spyhole and a stage at once. The red bulb above the door glows dull. Through the slit the dark is thick, yet it feels full: the faint idea of faces, a cough rising, the sigh of velvet. Tape sticks to the floor in careful lines (the sort of silence that makes your ears ring). A schedule is pinned crooked on the cork board—Saturday Matinee, Reel 2, Focus—scribbled in hurried capitals.

This room doesn’t tell stories; it delivers them. Even at rest, the walls hold a small pulse, a tiny itch of movement. What did it see, night after night? Lovers, storms, laughter. It hums to itself, waiting for a hand to thread the film and turn the small world on again.

Option B:

Morning lay over the office like a thin sheet of plastic: pale, a little crinkled. The fluorescent strip lights hummed; the air smelled of coffee grounds and lemon cleaner. I slid the cardboard box to the edge of my desk and pressed the tape flat with my thumb, slow, as if time might notice and pause.

Inside the box: a chipped mug with a blue whale; the plant with tired leaves leaning toward the window; two notebooks with curled corners; stray paperclips; a stapler that had been mine since my first week. Each thing felt heavier than it looked. On my first morning my shoes squeaked and my badge felt too bright; now it was scratched, and so was I.

We had the leaving cake at ten. In the kitchen, my colleagues stood in a soft horseshoe, their smiles careful and warm. Somebody had bought a supermarket cake, white frosting spelling out Good Luck We’ll Miss You—no commas. We laughed; we ate quickly; work went on. The photocopier coughed; the kettle clicked; the clock kept going. Alina hugged me, smelling of peppermint tea, and Raj shook my hand with both of his, pressing a glittery card into my palm. Pete tried a speech; it wobbled, then landed, and my throat tightened.

Back at my desk, I did a last inventory: emptied the drawer of lost pens and odd coins; wiped the faint ring of my mug; peeled up the tape that kept my cables in line. The surface looked clean, almost anonymous. First days are loud. Last days are quiet.

The lift chimed. I picked up the box; it wasn’t heavy, but it felt important. When the doors opened I hesitated and looked back at where my chair had been. For one more heartbeat, it was still mine. Then I stepped in.

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

Option A:

At the far end of a narrow corridor, a metal door sticks. It opens with a groan. Warm dust pushes out, rolling over my face, and the room breathes its tired breath. The walls are dull cream, finger marks around the switch, a tiny square window like an eye peering at the seats. The room is small, it feels smaller because of the heat.

The projector crouches, a squat, iron creature with bolts like knuckles. Its lens is cloudy; when it blinks on, an amber beam jumps. Belts loop around wheels and there is grease, a dark sheen. Someone once polished this mechanism; now the cloth lies grey on a stool. The smell is particular—oil, hot metal, a suggestion of singed dust.

On the shelf: a dented oil can, a cracked mug, reels with paper labels curling. A ribbon of celluloid spills from a tin, frames like small windows; held to the light, faces hover. The sound here used to be steady—whirr and click, whirr and click—like a heart in metal. Through the porthole the beam made a lane through darkness, dust dancing in it.

Beside the machine, a notebook lies open with cramped handwriting and timings. A cigarette has burned a black moon in the wood. Down below they laughed and cried, but up here the watcher worked, invisible. The room keeps secrets; it keeps them patiently. I touch the switch, then don’t. The silence is loud and grainy, settling and settling, like snow that doesn’t melt.

Option B:

Monday. Emails stacked like bricks; coffee steam drifting under the strip lights. The printer coughed, the clock blinked its blunt red numbers, and chairs sighed as people sat down. Today felt thinner, like the building had emptied itself a little.

I pulled the small box close. How do you pack years into cardboard? I wrapped my chipped mug in tissue, the mug that warmed my hands every winter. I peeled a tired photo from the screen frame and it left a ghost-square of clean glass. Paperclips rattled; pens rolled; my name badge lay flat as a coin.

Goodbye to the plant that never really grew; to the dent in the desk where my elbow lived. Goodbye to the kettle that screamed and the microwave that beeped six times. Goodbye to swivel chairs, to staplers, to the long corridor of pale carpet where my footsteps learnt the route.

Sam from Accounts leaned on the partition. "You sure you're ready?" he said, half-smile. We laughed because we were both nervous. Handshakes happened, then hugs, then the shy cake carved into too-neat slices. The leaving card was fat with messages, some heartfelt, some rushed. "Keep in touch," people said. We all say that, don't we?

I shut down my computer for the last time. The screen went dark—like a stage after the show.

At the door I looked back. The hum carried on without me, steady; loyal. I stepped into the lift, pressed G, and let the doors close.

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

Option A:

The room is small. Dust hangs in the beam from a crooked lamp, turning in slow circles like tired snow. The projector, a heavy machine with nicked paint, sits on a rattling table; it looks both proud and worn. The smell of hot dust and oil lingers, as if last night’s show never left. Reels lean against the wall like dull silver moons. A red switch is stiff. When it used to whirr, the steady click-click was almost comforting.

On the shelves, film cans are stacked, their labels fading: Adventure Night, Matinee, Newsreel. Some are dented; one lid refuses to close. A cracked stool waits by the window. Through that little square, a piece of the screen sits silent, a pale sheet. The glass is smudged, the lense ring scratched, and breath makes a small cloud on it. A crooked curtain traps the warm, dusty air. The fan coughs and then gives up, leaving the room with its own breath.

At the back, a tray holds tools—tiny screwdrivers, a brush, a jar of screws like dull seeds. Posters peel from the wall, corners curled. Somewhere a clock ticks, out of time. Empty, the room still feels busy; it remembers clapping and the hush after.

Option B:

Monday. The last one. The office hums like an old fridge; the strip lights blink. I slide pens and paperclips into a cardboard box. The chipped mug goes in next. Goodbye, mug. The screen shows my reflection, pale, sleep deprived; I look like a ghost that forgot where it is. I breathe in the stale coffee air, it tastes the same as every morning, but today it sticks.

People come by, one at a time. Sam pats my shoulder and says, 'Keep in touch, yeah?' The card is heavy with signatures and glitter that falls like tiny snow. There are jokes about meetings, and there is a quiet gap too. I try to say something important—some wise last line—but the words feel small. What do you say when it's the last time? We take a photo by the printer. It whirrs like it is also nervous.

At the door I pause. First the keys, then my pass, then my name badge: final things. The corridor were quiet, a tunnel of beige. I take one last look around; the chairs, the blue carpet, the window where rain always tapped. Outside, the bus sighs. I step out—lighter and heavy at the same time. Goodbye, workplace.

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

Option A:

The room is small and full of dust. It is quiet. The old projector sits like a big metel dog. It looks tired.

On the shelf there are reels, they are round and dull and they smell of old plastic, I run a finger and get grey on it.

Cables hang down from the celing like vines. The bulb housing is scratched, the glass is blury. the little window at the back wall is a square eye looking at the seats.

The chair is ripped. Foam comes out and the floor is sticky, wierd stains under my shoes.

When the light comes on it makes a beam. The beam is dusty and bright, little stars jump in it, click click, click.

Everything waits in here, waiting and waiting for the film to start again, for the noise and the whirr and the laughing. Will it start tonight or never

Option B:

Morning. The office smelt like coffee and old paper. Desks was small islands with wires. It was my last day and I folded the things that were mine: a chipped mug, a photo, two dry pens. I said good bye under my breath. Goodbye desk. Goodbye screen. The clock looked at me like it knew. I put the mug in the box and the box felt heavier than it should, it was only a mug but it felt like more.

Tina came over and hugged me too tight. We said keep in touch, like people do.

The lift doors opened slow - the corridor smelled of bleach. I looked back once at the empty chair. I was gonna wave but no one was looking so I just walked. Outside the air felt new and I thought this place kept me going and took my time aswell. I pressed the box to my chest and waited.

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

Option A:

The room is small and dusty. Old air sits heavy like powder, it taste dry in my mouth. A big metal projecter is in the middle, the lens is cloudy and it looks tired. It hums then stops then hums. Reels hang on hooks, they rattle, click click. The glass window to the cinema is smudgy, you can hardly see, only a stripe of light. The floor sticks and there is oil on it that smell like old popcorn, kind of sweet and bad. Cobwebs is on the corners. Outside I think a bus goes by. I think it once was buisy, now it dont move it just waits.

Option B:

The office is quiet and the lights hum. Its my last day. I look at my desk and I say goodbye in my head. The chair squeaks like a small bird. People go past with mugs, they say bye, some just wave. I put my cup in a box with pens and the old badge with my name on. It feels strange and it feels heavy but the box is light. I remember the coffee spill and the birthday cake, it was funny. The clock is slow, I want to go fast, the door waits. I was sat there, we was a team, now I leave.