AQA GCSE English Language 8700/1 - Explorations in creative ...

Mark Scheme

Introduction

The information provided for each question is intended to be a guide to the kind of answers anticipated and is neither exhaustive nor prescriptive. All appropriate responses should be given credit.

Level of response marking instructions

Level of response mark schemes are broken down into four levels (where appropriate). Read through the student's answer and annotate it (as instructed) to show the qualities that are being looked for. You can then award a mark.

You should refer to the standardising material throughout your marking. The Indicative Standard is not intended to be a model answer nor a complete response, and it does not exemplify required content. It is an indication of the quality of response that is typical for each level and shows progression from Level 1 to 4.

Step 1 Determine a level

Start at the lowest level of the mark scheme and use it as a ladder to see whether the answer meets the descriptors for that level. If it meets the lowest level then go to the next one and decide if it meets this level, and so on, until you have a match between the level descriptor and the answer. With practice and familiarity you will be able to quickly skip through the lower levels for better answers. The Indicative Standard column in the mark scheme will help you determine the correct level.

Step 2 Determine a mark

Once you have assigned a level you need to decide on the mark. Balance the range of skills achieved; allow strong performance in some aspects to compensate for others only partially fulfilled. Refer to the standardising scripts to compare standards and allocate a mark accordingly. Re-read as needed to assure yourself that the level and mark are appropriate. An answer which contains nothing of relevance must be awarded no marks.

Advice for Examiners

In fairness to students, all examiners must use the same marking methods.

1. Refer constantly to the mark scheme and standardising scripts throughout the marking period.
2. Always credit accurate, relevant and appropriate responses that are not necessarily covered by the mark scheme or the standardising scripts.
3. Use the full range of marks. Do not hesitate to give full marks if the response merits it.
4. Remember the key to accurate and fair marking is consistency.
5. If you have any doubt about how to allocate marks to a response, consult your Team Leader.

SECTION A: READING - Assessment Objectives

AO1

• Identify and interpret explicit and implicit information and ideas.
• Select and synthesise evidence from different texts.

AO2

• Explain, comment on and analyse how writers use language and structure to achieve effects and influence readers, using relevant subject terminology to support their views.

AO3

• Compare writers' ideas and perspectives, as well as how these are conveyed, across two or more texts.

AO4

• Evaluate texts critically and support this with appropriate textual references.

SECTION B: WRITING - Assessment Objectives

AO5 (Writing: Content and Organisation)

• Communicate clearly, effectively and imaginatively, selecting and adapting tone, style and register for different forms, purposes and audiences.
• Organise information and ideas, using structural and grammatical features to support coherence and cohesion of texts.

AO6

• Candidates must use a range of vocabulary and sentence structures for clarity, purpose and effect, with accurate spelling and punctuation. (This requirement must constitute 20% of the marks for each specification as a whole).

Answers

Question 1 - Mark Scheme

Read again the first part of the source, from lines 1 to 9. Answer all parts of this question. Choose one answer for each. [4 marks]

Assessment focus (AO1): Identify and interpret explicit and implicit information and ideas. This assesses bullet point 1 (identify and interpret explicit and implicit information and ideas).

• 1.1 According to the narrator, what seems to be the source of the brief glow that flickers in the water?: The body of a man in the water – 1 mark
• 1.2 According to the narrator, what visible effect does the ship have on the water at the start of the passage?: It casts a dense strip of shade across the surface. – 1 mark
• 1.3 What does the narrator immediately notice floating near the ladder?: a long, pale shape – 1 mark
• 1.4 According to the narrator's description, where does the brief glow in the water seem to come from?: From the body of a man floating near the ship's ladder – 1 mark

Question 2 - Mark Scheme

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

6 lightning in a night sky. With a gasp I saw revealed to my stare a pair of feet, the long legs, a broad livid back immersed right up to the neck in a greenish cadaverous glow. One hand, awash, clutched the bottom rung of the ladder. He was complete but for the head. A headless corpse! The cigar dropped out of my gaping mouth with a tiny plop and a short hiss quite audible in the

11 absolute stillness of all things under heaven. At that I suppose he raised up his face, a dimly pale oval in the shadow of the ship’s side. But even then I could only barely make out down there the shape of his black-haired head. However, it was enough for the horrid, frost-bound sensation which had gripped me about the chest to pass off. The moment of vain exclamations was past, too.

How does the writer use language here to create a sense of shock and uncertainty as the narrator looks at the figure in the water? 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 morbid colour imagery ("greenish cadaverous glow", "broad livid back") and the exclamative "A headless corpse!", alongside onomatopoeia ("tiny plop", "short hiss") set against the hyperbolic "absolute stillness of all things under heaven", create a jolt of shock. It would also trace uncertainty through tentative, obscured perception—"I suppose", "a dimly pale oval", "only barely make out"—and the lightning image "lightning in a night sky", reinforced by the chilling metaphor "frost-bound sensation" and verbs like "clutched", noting how abrupt exclamation gives way to longer qualifying clauses to mirror panic shifting into hesitant recognition.

The writer opens with colour imagery and synecdoche to shock the narrator as he looks into the water. The cumulative, asyndetic catalogue 'a pair of feet, the long legs, a broad livid back' isolates body parts, making the figure seem dismembered. The passive participle 'revealed to my stare' suggests the sight is thrust upon him, while 'livid' and the 'greenish cadaverous glow' draw on a semantic field of death. That perception culminates in the clipped, exclamative minor sentence 'A headless corpse!', whose shock mirrors his 'gasp' and 'gaping mouth.'

Furthermore, sound and stillness intensify the moment. Onomatopoeia—'a tiny plop' and 'a short hiss'—magnifies small noises that become 'quite audible in the absolute stillness of all things under heaven'. This hyperbole and sibilance craft a hush, while 'awash,' a hand 'clutched' a rung—desperate survival that heightens shock.

Moreover, uncertainty is encoded through hedged modality and obscured visuals. The tentative 'I suppose he raised up his face' and the adverbial 'only barely' foreground doubt, while the face reduces to 'a dimly pale oval': a deliberately vague, oxymoronic impression that resists certainty. Shadow imagery—'in the shadow of the ship’s side'—further veils identity.

Additionally, sentence form mirrors fluctuating perception. The stepwise unveiling from 'feet' to 'head' enacts halting recognition, before the metaphor 'the horrid, frost-bound sensation... gripped me about the chest' renders fear as physical constriction. Although 'it was enough... to pass off' signals partial relief, the preceding exclamatives and clipped clauses have etched an atmosphere of shock and uncertainty.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Shows clear understanding; explains effects; relevant detail; clear and accurate terminology. Indicative Standard: Shock is built through vivid, gothic description and sound: adjectives and colour imagery like broad livid back and greenish cadaverous glow make the figure seem corpse-like, while the short exclamative A headless corpse! and onomatopoeia tiny plop/short hiss against the absolute stillness intensify the moment. Uncertainty is shown by tentative phrasing and limited sight—I suppose, could only barely make out a dimly pale oval—and the metaphor frost-bound sensation gripped me about the chest shows fear easing as he realises the head is there.

The writer uses a macabre semantic field to shock. The “greenish cadaverous glow” and “broad livid back” employ deathly adjectives, making the figure seem corpse-like and preparing us for the shock: “He was complete but for the head. A headless corpse!” That exclamatory minor sentence crystallises the narrator’s horror, while his physical reaction, “With a gasp” and a “gaping mouth,” shows immediate shock.

Furthermore, sensory detail and onomatopoeia intensify the moment. The cigar falls with “a tiny plop” and “a short hiss,” sounds “quite audible in the absolute stillness of all things under heaven.” Onomatopoeia and hyperbole amplify the silence so trivial noises seem huge, mirroring his stunned state.

Additionally, the writer sustains uncertainty through hedging and obscured imagery. “At that I suppose he raised up his face” uses tentative modality, while the “dimly pale oval” reduces the head to a vague shape; the adverbs “only” and “barely” in “I could only barely make out” emphasise limited vision. Moreover, the metaphor and personification in the “horrid, frost-bound sensation” that “gripped” his chest convey fear as a physical constraint. Connectives like “But even then” and “However” signal a shift from panic to reassurance, keeping uncertainty alive as he peers into water.

Level 2 (Some understanding and comment) – 3–4 marks Attempts to comment on effects; some appropriate detail; some use of terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer creates shock with vivid, eerie description and sound words like "greenish cadaverous glow", "tiny plop" and "short hiss", and the short exclamation "A headless corpse!". Uncertainty is shown by phrases such as "I suppose he raised up his face" and "I could only barely make out", and the hush of "absolute stillness of all things under heaven" makes the moment tense.

The writer uses vivid adjectives and imagery to show shock as he looks down into the water. The phrase “greenish cadaverous glow” and “broad livid back” make the figure seem corpse-like and unnatural. The verb “clutched” and “With a gasp” suggest panic and urgency in the narrator.

Furthermore, the exclamatory short sentence “A headless corpse!” shows sudden horror and surprise. The onomatopoeia “tiny plop” and “short hiss” in the “absolute stillness” highlight the tense silence, increasing the shock.

Moreover, uncertainty is created by the hesitant phrase “I suppose” and vague description: “a dimly pale oval” and “could only barely make out”. These phrases, with “shadow” and “shape”, show he isn’t sure what he is seeing.

Additionally, the metaphor “horrid, frost-bound sensation... gripped me” suggests physical shock tightening his chest, but it “passes off” when he realises the figure has a head, moving from panic to uncertain relief.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple comment; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer uses descriptive words like "greenish cadaverous glow" and "dimly pale oval" to create a creepy image, and the short exclamation "A headless corpse!" shows shock. Sound words like "tiny plop" and "short hiss", plus uncertain phrases such as "I suppose" and "could only barely make out", make the scene feel tense and unsure.

The writer uses descriptive words to shock. "With a gasp" and the "greenish cadaverous glow" and "livid back" make the figure seem dead. This makes the narrator and reader feel alarmed.

Furthermore, the short sentence and exclamation "A headless corpse!" shows his panic. The onomatopoeia "tiny plop" and "short hiss" in the "absolute stillness" makes the moment jumpy.

Additionally, uncertainty is shown by the phrases "I suppose" and "could only barely make out", and by "dimly pale oval". This shows he isn’t sure what he sees, so the reader feels unsure too. Therefore, the language creates shock and uncertainty.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Sudden lightning image jolts the scene, mirroring the narrator’s shock at the unexpected reveal (lightning in a night sky).
• Fragmented body-part listing dehumanises the figure and heightens unease by withholding the face (pair of feet).
• Macabre colour imagery suggests deathliness and unnaturalness, intensifying fear (greenish cadaverous glow).
• Dynamic verb choice implies desperate, precarious grasp and immediate danger (clutched the bottom rung).
• Short exclamatory sentence captures horrified misreading and peak shock before clarity returns (A headless corpse!).
• Onomatopoeic detail set against deep quiet makes tiny sounds startling and amplifies the hush (tiny plop).
• Hedging signals uncertainty about perception, weakening certainty in the narration (I suppose).
• Indistinct visual description sustains doubt, reducing the figure to an indistinct blur (dimly pale oval).
• Personification of fear makes the shock visceral, as terror physically constricts the narrator (gripped me about the chest).
• Discourse markers maintain and then resolve doubt, guiding the reader through shifting perceptions (But even then).

Question 3 - Mark Scheme

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

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

You could write about:

• how intimacy develops from beginning to end
• how the writer uses structure to create an effect
• the writer's use of any other structural features, such as changes in mood, tone or perspective. [8 marks]

Question 3 (AO2) – Structural Analysis (8 marks)

Assesses structure (pivotal point, juxtaposition, flashback, focus shifts, mood/tone, contrast, narrative pace, etc.).

Level 4 (Perceptive, detailed analysis) – 7–8 marks Analyses effects of structural choices; judicious examples; sophisticated terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 4 response would trace how intimacy is built structurally from distance and misrecognition — the ship’s opaque belt of shadow and the shock of A headless corpse! — to a hush of shared space and speech in the absolute stillness of all things under heaven, as the narrative shifts from panoramic description to taut, reciprocal dialogue. It would identify the turning-point of identity disclosures (I am the captain; My name’s Leggatt), the binding motif of the sea lightning that frames them together, and the physical convergence when he began suddenly to climb up the ladder, culminating in the narrator’s explicit bond, A mysterious communication was established already between us two.

One way in which the writer structures the opening to foster intimacy is through a progressive narrowing of focus. We begin with sea and ship; then a shocking misperception: “A headless corpse!” That initial distance yields, signalled by “At that…” and “The moment… was past.” The narrator physically “leaned over… to bring my eyes nearer,” and the man’s “face upturned exactly under mine” aligns them vertically, in intimate proxemics, reducing distance. This controlled zoom and first-person focalisation draw the reader into a private, face-to-face encounter.

In addition, the structural pivot from description to clipped dialogue accelerates pace and creates confidentiality. Direct speech appears in terse adjacency pairs—“What’s the matter?” / “Cramp”; “Are you alone on deck?” / “Yes.”—and is whispered (“no louder”, “By Jove!”) against the “absolute stillness”. Tight turn-taking and lowered volume act as aural staging, enclosing the scene. The man’s plea, “no need to call anyone,” introduces secrecy; the captain’s “I was not going to” reciprocates it. This pattern of hushed exchanges builds an intimate, conspiratorial tone.

A further feature is the mirrored revelation that cements the bond. Two balanced declaratives—“I am the captain” and, a beat later, “My name’s Leggatt”—form a hinge in the narrative. The first-person, internally focalised voice registers alignment: “A good voice… induced a corresponding state in myself,” and states “a mysterious communication was established.” The episode resolves into action—Leggatt “began… to climb” as the narrator “fetch[es] some clothes”—translating connection into protective care, so intimacy develops from wary encounter to tacit alliance.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Explains effects; relevant examples; clear terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 3 response would typically identify how the writer moves from distant, eerie description (e.g., "opaque belt of shadow", "A headless corpse!") to closer focus and dialogue, zooming in on "the face upturned exactly under mine" to build intimacy. It would also recognise the turning point "I am the captain." and the recurring "ladder" as structural links that shift the mood from fear to confidentiality ("I say, no need to call anyone.", "A mysterious communication was established already between us two") and culminate as he "began suddenly to climb up the ladder", where physical proximity mirrors growing emotional closeness.

One way the writer structures the opening to build intimacy is by narrowing the focus. We move from the panoramic sea to isolated body parts ("pair of feet... broad livid back") and finally the "face upturned exactly under mine." This progressive close-up, following the shift from alarm ("the moment of vain exclamations was past") to calm, within a sustained first-person perspective, reduces distance and creates proximity in the "absolute stillness."

In addition, the shift from description into clipped, turn-taking dialogue slows the pace and feels confidential. Brief exchanges - "What's the matter?"/"Cramp"; "no need to call anyone" - and the request to "call him out quietly" make the scene a private conversation. The captain's interior asides ("I was not going to"; "I had somehow the impression") keep focus on his perception, drawing the reader into a hushed, conspiratorial mood.

A further structural feature is the turning point of identity revelation. The declaratives "I am the captain" and "My name's Leggatt" act as a pivot, after which the narrator states "a mysterious communication... between us two." The temporal detail ("since nine o'clock") and binary choice "whether... or" heighten urgency while aligning them ("I was young, too"). The ending action - he "began... to climb" and the captain fetches clothes - converts sympathy into action, sealing the intimacy.

Level 2 (Some understanding and comment) – 3–4 marks Attempts to comment; some examples; some terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 2 response would note a simple progression from initial distance and fear—“A headless corpse!”—to physical and verbal closeness as the narrator “leaned over the rail,” speaks (“What’s the matter?” / “Cramp”), and observes the “face upturned exactly under mine,” which makes the moment feel private. It would also identify the late reveal of identities (“I am the captain,” “My name’s Leggatt”) and “A mysterious communication was established already between us two,” saying this shift in mood builds intimacy by the end.

One way the writer structures the text to create intimacy is by the opening focus. At the beginning we start wide, with the sea and a “headless” body, then the focus shifts closer to “a dimly pale oval” and a face “exactly under mine”, reducing distance and calming the tone.

In addition, in the middle the dialogue sequence builds a private, whispered moment. Short questions and answers — “What’s the matter?”/“Cramp” — and the first-person viewpoint keep us inside the captain’s perspective. The night “stillness” and quiet voices make it feel like a confidential exchange.

A further way, towards the end, is the turning point when identities are named: “I am the captain” and “My name’s Leggatt”. This change of focus from mystery to recognition, and the line “a mysterious communication... between us two”, show a bond forming; then the action (“fetch some clothes”) moves towards physical closeness and trust.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer starts with distant description like "elongated and pale" and "A headless corpse!", then shifts to close first-person dialogue ("What’s the matter?", "My name’s Leggatt.") and physical proximity "face upturned exactly under mine", which simply makes the scene feel more intimate.

One way in which the writer has structured the text to create intimacy is by moving from distant description to close focus. At the start we get the sea and ship, then the narrator leans to the man's face, so we feel nearer.

In addition, the dialogue builds closeness. Short turns like 'What's the matter?' and 'My name's Leggatt' make a private exchange, and the first-person 'I' pulls us in.

A further structural feature is a change in mood. It moves from shock to calm, ending with the captain fetching clothes, which shows a bond beginning.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Delayed revelation from eerie misperception to human recognition builds closeness as the unknown becomes a person (raised up his face)
• Progressive narrowing of physical distance concentrates attention and intimacy as the narrator leans in (bring my eyes nearer)
• Direct spatial alignment intensifies proximity: face-to-face positioning shrinks distance (face upturned exactly under mine)
• Framing the encounter in hush and isolation makes it feel private and intimate (absolute stillness)
• Shift into low-key, everyday dialogue normalises the meeting, softening tension into closeness (ordinary tone)
• A structural check on seclusion secures a confidential space for connection (Are you alone on deck?)
• Staged identity disclosure shifts power and trust, deepening personal connection (I am the captain)
• Naming the stranger personalises him and invites a closer bond (My name’s Leggatt)
• Mirrored self-recognition creates emotional kinship, tightening the bond (between us two)
• The recurring ladder-as-threshold moves from clinging to approach, climaxing the move toward togetherness (seized the ladder)

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 man as a 'headless corpse' is very frightening. The writer suggests this builds suspense for when we find out he is actually a calm and normal person.

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

In your response, you could:

• consider your impressions of the man appearing as a headless corpse
• comment on the methods the writer uses to present the man as initially frightening
• 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 heightens fear through dehumanising, uncanny imagery—"ghastly, silvery, fishlike", "as mute as a fish", "sea lightning", "risen from the bottom of the sea"—to build suspense that pivots into humanising calm when he asserts identity—"My name’s Leggatt"—and speaks in a "calm and resolute" "good voice", whose "self-possession" steadies the captain. It would also qualify the claim of him being “normal” by noting lingering ambiguity in "mysterious communication" and the bitter "What’s the good?", which keep his presence unsettling even after the reveal.

I largely agree that the initial description—evoked by the claim of a “headless corpse”—is frightening, and that the writer exploits this unease to build suspense before revealing a calm, self-possessed man. However, the calm does not dispel tension entirely; instead, the revelation transforms horror into a subtler, moral suspense.

The opening impression in this section is unnervingly corpse-like. The man is a “mystery floating alongside,” his limbs lit by “sea lightning,” appearing “ghastly, silvery, fishlike.” This spectral, piscine imagery dehumanises him: “silvery” and “fishlike” suggest cold slickness, while the sibilance hisses eerily. The simile “like a resting swimmer” is paradoxically unsettling because he “made no motion to get out of the water,” a passivity more akin to a drowned body than a living man. The narrator’s “troubled incertitude” and the admission that it is “inconceivable” he should not try to come aboard position the reader in a state of anxious bafflement. When the narrator imagines he has “risen from the bottom of the sea,” the diction deliberately flirts with the uncanny, invoking the drowned—hence the frightening “headless corpse” impression.

Structurally, the writer sustains suspense by withholding identity and controlling pace. The clipped, low-voiced dialogue—“Cramp,” “no need to call anyone,” “Are you alone on deck?”—creates a semantic field of secrecy. Adverbs such as “quietly” and “tentatively,” and the “low, bitter murmur of doubt,” slow the rhythm and suggest concealment. The narrator’s fear that the figure is “on the point of letting go the ladder to swim away beyond my ken” sharpens tension: we may lose this mystery just as it materialises. This delay before naming him is a classic withholding device, prolonging the unsettling ambiguity.

When the man finally speaks fully, the tonal shift is striking. “The voice was calm and resolute. A good voice.” The evaluative noun phrase humanises him, and the idiomatic “By Jove!” sounds reassuringly ordinary. Naming—“My name’s Leggatt”—replaces the anonymous apparition with a person; the captain’s disclosure “I am the captain” creates symmetry and mutual recognition. Even Leggatt’s pragmatic self-assessment—“I’ve been in the water practically since nine o’clock”—and the clear dilemma “to go on swimming till I sink… or—to come on board” mark him as rational and self-possessed, a “strong soul” rather than a ghoul.

Yet the suspense does not evaporate. The phosphorescence still “flashed in the swirl… about his limbs,” visually keeping him liminal, and his request to “call him out quietly” preserves secrecy. The narrator’s “mysterious communication” with him hints at deeper entanglement. Overall, the writer deftly converts the initial, frightening corpse-imagery into a charged suspense that culminates not in bland normality but in a calm, compelling enigma. I therefore agree to a large extent, with the caveat that the calm intensifies, rather than resolves, our curiosity.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant evaluation) – 11–15 marks Clear ideas; clear methods; clear evaluation of impact; relevant references. Indicative Standard: I mostly agree: sinister imagery and similes make him seem inhuman—ghastly, silvery, fishlike, mute as a fish, and as if he had risen from the bottom of the sea—which builds suspense before the shift when he states "My name’s Leggatt" in a calm and resolute voice, showing The self-possession of that man and revealing he is calm and normal.

I largely agree with the statement. Although the phrase “headless corpse” is not repeated in this section, the writer sustains a frightening, corpse‑like impression that builds suspense before revealing the man to be calm and self‑possessed.

At first, the man is presented through eerie, dehumanising imagery. The narrator leans over to examine the “mystery floating alongside,” and the sea “lightning played about his limbs,” a touch of personification that gives the water an uncanny agency. Colour and sensory imagery—“ghastly, silvery, fishlike”—make him look other‑than‑human, while the simile “as mute as a fish” and the suggestion he had “risen from the bottom of the sea” evoke a drowned body. Structurally, Conrad delays reassurance: the man “made no motion to get out,” and the narrator’s “troubled incertitude” that he “did not want to” come aboard heightens unease. Even the idea he might “let go the ladder to swim away” sustains the tension; we still don’t know who he is or what he wants.

However, the revelation humanises him quickly. Dialogue is key here. His quiet, practical answers—“Cramp,” “no need to call anyone,” “Are you alone on deck?”—show control rather than mania. The turning point is identity: “My name’s Leggatt.” The narrative voice evaluates his character directly—“The voice was calm and resolute. A good voice”—and this characterisation, coupled with the noun “self‑possession,” shifts the tone. The first‑person narrator admits this steadiness “induced a corresponding state in myself,” signalling that fear is being replaced by trust.

That said, some suspense lingers. The stark dilemma—“whether I am to let go this ladder… or to come on board”—is a structural device that keeps the stakes high, and his request to “call him out quietly” hints at secrecy. Even as the captain “hastened… to fetch some clothes,” suggesting acceptance, the “mysterious communication” between them remains unsettling.

Overall, I mostly agree: the frightening, corpse‑like depiction effectively builds suspense, and the calm voice and name resolve much of it, though Conrad deliberately leaves a residue of tension about who Leggatt is and what will follow.

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 the man first appears frightening through simple imagery and silence (e.g., “ghastly, silvery, fishlike” and “mute as a fish”), which builds suspense. It would then spot the contrast when he speaks, calling him “calm and resolute” with “A good voice”, showing he is normal after all.

I mostly agree with the statement. Calling him a “headless corpse” is very frightening, and in this section the writer keeps that uneasy mood to build suspense before revealing he is calm and ordinary.

At first, the man seems unnatural and scary. The narrator leans towards a “mystery floating,” and the sea-light “played about his limbs,” making him look “ghastly, silvery, fishlike.” These adjectives suggest something cold and corpse-like. The simile “mute as a fish” also makes him seem inhuman and threatening, as if he has risen from nowhere. The phrase “as if he had risen from the bottom of the sea” strengthens the idea of a body from the deep. Structurally, the narrator’s “troubled incertitude” shows his anxiety and keeps us waiting to find out who this figure really is.

However, when the man speaks, the tone shifts. Dialogue reduces the fear: he politely says “Cramp… no need to call anyone,” which sounds ordinary. The revelation “My name’s Leggatt” and the captain’s comment that his voice was “calm and resolute. A good voice,” present him as controlled and normal. The contrast between the eerie imagery and this steady voice releases some tension. Still, the suspense does not vanish because he faces a “real alternative” to “let go this ladder… or to come on board,” which keeps the stakes high.

Overall, I agree to a large extent. The frightening, almost corpse-like description builds suspense, and then the writer reveals a calm, capable person—though a sense of mystery remains.

Level 1 (Simple, limited) – 1–5 marks Simple ideas; limited methods; simple evaluation; simple references. Indicative Standard: I agree a little because at first the man seems scary, described as "ghastly, silvery, fishlike" and "mute as a fish". But then he is "calm and resolute" with "a good voice", so the contrast builds suspense before we realise he’s normal.

I mostly agree with the statement. At first, the man in the water seems very frightening, almost like a “headless corpse”, and this builds suspense before we realise he is calm.

The writer uses scary imagery and a simile to show this. The “sea lightning played about his limbs” so he looks “ghastly, silvery, fishlike.” The simile “mute as a fish” makes him seem lifeless. He even “appeared as if he had risen from the bottom of the sea,” which is like a corpse. This makes the scene feel creepy and tense.

The suspense also grows because of his odd behaviour. He “made no motion to get out of the water” and might “swim away beyond my ken,” which is mysterious. He quietly says “no need to call anyone,” which keeps the tension going.

However, later the mood changes. When he says, “My name’s Leggatt,” the narrator notes his “voice was calm and resolute” and “a good voice.” He asks normal things, like the time, and shows “self-possession.” This contrast shows he is actually a calm, normal person.

Overall, I agree that the frightening first picture creates suspense, and then the writer reveals he is not a monster but an ordinary man.

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:

• Dehumanising imagery intensifies fear and mystery, making the first impression convincingly unsettling (mute as a fish)
• Withheld action (he stays in the water) creates abnormality and unease, effectively building suspense (made no motion)
• The narrator’s uncertainty externalises anxiety we share, sharpening tension about the stranger’s intentions (troubled incertitude)
• Oceanic-emergence imagery suggests the uncanny and corpse-like, heightening dread in the night setting (risen from the bottom)
• Low, secretive dialogue and restraint imply hidden threat, keeping the reader on edge despite calm tone (no need to call)
• Secrecy escalates via a clandestine request, deepening suspense about motive and danger (call him out quietly)
• Naming and voice quality humanise him, pivoting the scene from fear to normality as tension eases (calm and resolute)
• The captain’s mirroring composure reframes events as controlled, reducing the sense of looming threat (corresponding state)
• The stark alternative sustains tension, but as existential risk rather than horror, moderating initial fright (sink from exhaustion)
• Practical resolution (boarding and care) normalises him and resolves suspense, confirming he is no menace (fetch some clothes)

Question 5 - Mark Scheme

A sports charity is collecting short creative pieces for its website about the power of sport.

Choose one of the options below for your entry.

• Option A: Describe the moment just before a race starts from your imagination. You may choose to use the picture provided for ideas:

• Option B: Write the opening of a story about an important lesson learned from a defeat.

(24 marks for content and organisation, 16 marks for technical accuracy) [40 marks]

(24 marks for content and organisation • 16 marks for technical accuracy) [40 marks]

Question 5 (AO5) – Content & Organisation (24 marks)

Communicate clearly, effectively and imaginatively; organise information and ideas to support coherence and cohesion. Levels and typical features follow AQA’s SAMs grid for descriptive/narrative writing. Use the Level 4 → Level 1 descriptors for content and organisation, distinguishing Upper/Lower bands within Levels 4–3–2.

• Level 4 (19–24 marks) Upper 22–24: Convincing and compelling; assured register; extensive and ambitious vocabulary; varied and inventive structure; compelling ideas; fluent paragraphing with seamless discourse markers.

Lower 19–21: Convincing; extensive vocabulary; varied and effective structure; highly engaging with developed complex ideas; consistently coherent paragraphs.

• Level 3 (13–18 marks) Upper 16–18: Consistently clear; register matched; increasingly sophisticated vocabulary and phrasing; effective structural features; engaging, clear connected ideas; coherent paragraphs with integrated markers.

Lower 13–15: Generally clear; vocabulary chosen for effect; usually effective structure; engaging with connected ideas; usually coherent paragraphs.

• Level 2 (7–12 marks) Upper 10–12: Some sustained success; some sustained matching of register/purpose; conscious vocabulary; some devices; some structural features; increasing variety of linked ideas; some paragraphs and markers.

Lower 7–9: Some success; attempts to match register/purpose; attempts to vary vocabulary; attempts structural features; some linked ideas; attempts at paragraphing with markers.

• Level 1 (1–6 marks) Upper 4–6: Simple communication; simple awareness of register/purpose; simple vocabulary/devices; evidence of simple structural features; one or two relevant ideas; random paragraphing.

Lower 1–3: Limited communication; occasional sense of audience/purpose; limited or no structural features; one or two unlinked ideas; no paragraphs.

Level 0: Nothing to reward. NB: If a candidate does not directly address the focus of the task, cap AO5 at 12 (top of Level 2).

Question 5 (AO6) – Technical Accuracy (16 marks)

Students must use a range of vocabulary and sentence structures for clarity, purpose and effect, with accurate spelling and punctuation.

• Level 4 (13–16): Consistently secure demarcation; wide range of punctuation with high accuracy; full range of sentence forms; secure Standard English and complex grammar; high accuracy in spelling, including ambitious vocabulary; extensive and ambitious vocabulary.

• Level 3 (9–12): Mostly secure demarcation; range of punctuation mostly successful; variety of sentence forms; mostly appropriate Standard English; generally accurate spelling including complex/irregular words; increasingly sophisticated vocabulary.

• Level 2 (5–8): Mostly secure demarcation (sometimes accurate); some control of punctuation range; attempts variety of sentence forms; some use of Standard English; some accurate spelling of more complex words; varied vocabulary.

• Level 1 (1–4): Occasional demarcation; some evidence of conscious punctuation; simple sentence forms; occasional Standard English; accurate basic spelling; simple vocabulary.

• Level 0: Spelling, punctuation, etc., are sufficiently poor to prevent understanding or meaning.

Model Answers

The following model answers demonstrate both AO5 (Content & Organisation) and AO6 (Technical Accuracy) at each level. Each response shows the expected standard for both assessment objectives.

• Level 4 Upper (22-24 marks for AO5, 13-16 marks for AO6, 35-40 marks total)

Option A:

The stadium inhales; the track holds its breath. Light slides over the lacquered lanes, each white numeral a promise and a threat—a metronome of expectations painted into the tartan. Above, a mosaic of faces—blurred coins, sunlit—tilts forward as though gravity itself has leaned toward the straight. Flags are idling; cameras idle less, a vigilant wink. Beneath it all, heat rises in shivering veils, the afternoon smelling of rubber, cut grass, liniment: industry and hope made visible.

Spikes prick the ground, tiny stars ready to bite. My shoes are a bright, impractical blue; their tongues whisper against my socks as I roll my ankles, once, twice. The starting blocks feel cold through the thin soles, anodised metal corrugated like a prayer mat. I thumb the bolt again—an unnecessary check, necessary all the same. Chalk dust blooms from my fingers, a pale constellation on my thighs.

Inside, everything is precise and imprecise at once. My pulse bangs with the unreasonable confidence of a drummer boy; my mouth tastes metallic, as if I have bitten the air. Breathe in for four, hold for two, breathe out for four (always the same ritual). The world contracts to a tunnel whose exit is one staggered bend away. The lane beside me is a quiet threat; the lane beyond is an absence I pretend not to notice.

On your marks. The phrase falls like a lid. Hands to the line: fingers splay, nails rasp on paint; one knee lowers, left foot slots, right foot presses; hips settle; shoulders drop. The blocks receive me with a click, a hush, a promise. Somewhere far above, a child coughs. Somewhere much closer, a heart—mine—calibrates. I glance at the black mouth of the pistol, the neat white cuff, the official’s unreadable face.

Set. The word thins everything to wire. Time elongates, a strand drawn from warm sugar; the whole stadium becomes the smallest possible room. My hamstrings sing with that narrow, necessary ache: calves coil, spine lengthens, head bows—not in reverence but in angle. Silence is not silent: there is a fly, an anxious thrum; the electronic clock ticks with a mechanical kindness; spikes shuffle, then still. Even the sun appears to pause on the lip of a cloud.

The starter’s arm lifts; shoulders hitch in a thousand seats and stop. A breeze, belated and kind, moves the hair on my forearms, gathers the salty film at my temple, drifts away. I can see, absurdly, the tiny seam where rubber meets paint on the nearest lane marker; I can hear my coach’s last cliché—give it everything—flutter past and settle anyway. The track seems to lean forward, impatient, generous, waiting to be cut.

Ready, ready, ready. The world narrows to a single fingertip tightening on a trigger and a breath I have been holding since forever. One more second—

Option B:

Autumn. The season of surrender; leaves loosen their grip and spiral because even trees know when to let go. The track had been a bright ribbon under a sky the colour of pewter; now, as the stadium emptied in a hush of plastic seats, the wind gathered crisp confetti and scattered it with ceremonial indifference. Somewhere, my name clung to the tannoy’s tongue—mispronounced, metallic—before dissolving into static.

I led the first bend with a greed I called confidence. I chased the curve as if I could outrun time; by the back straight my legs were wet cement, my breath clawing at air, the world narrowing to a tunnel of red and white. Naomi brushed past—quietly, like a sail catching clean wind—and the roar became a salt sting. I stumbled at the line; the clock stared back, impassive: 57.31—fourth.

I crouched, hands on knees; warm rubber, rain, copper on the tongue. The official’s smile—polite, professional—hurt more than the lactic burn. I have always loved the start line (the hush, the held breath) more than the finish; perhaps that was the problem.

Ms Patel didn’t clap or scold. She sat beside me—cross-legged, unhurried—and offered water. ‘You can’t win the finish on the first bend,’ she said, not unkindly. ‘Your pace is an argument; make it persuasive, not loud.’ I wanted to argue—because I had trained, because I had imagined the tape breaking over my shoulders—and the words jammed behind my teeth.

Even last week, when she set the metronome of laps at a pace that felt inconveniently patient, I shrugged and sprinted away, my pride a private engine. Sprint, sprint, sprint. I mistook noise for power, hurt for proof. I wanted the win not only to be mine, but to be obvious, extravagant; a little cruel. There is a thin border between hunger and hubris, and I crossed it.

Afterwards, the pavement glittered with sycamore keys and stray foil from someone’s celebration. Each step was an inventory: what I ignored, what I overdid, what I will unlearn. Yet, as a leaf broke free above me—fluttering, negotiating air, landing with grace rather than grief—I felt something unclench. Defeat is not a wall; it is a door that doesn’t advertise itself. You have to feel for the handle.

Tomorrow, I will run the bends like sentences—measured, with clauses that breathe—and save the exclamation for the last straight. I will listen. If I fall behind, I will not thrash; I will steady, recalibrate, and come again. The applause can wait: the craft cannot.

I thought I had lost a race; what I shed, more usefully, was the arrogance that made me ignore the lesson I had been taught all along.

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

Option A:

The track is a ribbon of charcoal kept under a patient sun; my fingers splay across the clean white line, the paint gritty, the tarmac biting back. Blocks wedge my shoes, biting at the soles as if to anchor me—faithful, unyielding. Heat lifts in a faint shimmer; somewhere a flag lifts its shoulder to the wind. The stadium murmurs in layers—vendors, feet, a child’s laugh—then flattens, as if a vast hand presses down. I lower my head until the lane becomes a narrow future.

“On your marks,” the starter calls, voice metronomic; hundreds of bodies answer with a ripple—shoes scuff, ankles flex, coughs are swallowed. I shuffle my feet against the blocks until every notch feels negotiated. The spikes kiss the surface; my palms smudge tiny half-moons into the line. I breathe a measured breath: in, then out; in, then out; in—just once more. The smell is part laboratory, part field—the sting of liniment, the oil of metal, the green tang of cut grass.

“Set.” The word snaps like chalk. The world compacts to the exact width of my shoulders. Hips rise, spine a taut bow; calves sing; hamstrings gather. Tendons stand like piano wires; the back of my neck prickles as if struck by static. Time thins. The crowd dissolves to a deep, expectant silence that feels viscous, almost physical, something to push through. A taste of iron gathers behind my teeth, sudden and uninvited.

To my left, someone clears his throat; to my right, the rattle of a bead in a plait. I do not look—cannot. The lanes are partitions; we are solitary on neighbouring islands. The blocks hold our secrets: flinches practised in private hallways, mornings of rain, evenings of ache. A bee fusses at the edge of the track, oblivious to our invented thunder. I think of all the roads that poured me here and force the thought away. Not now. Not yet.

Muscle becomes instruction. The body is almost too full; energy crowds the skin and begs for release. A single drop of sweat collects at my temple, pauses, and slides, slow as syrup. I let it go. Every angle is measured, every weight shift deliberate, every breath counted and banked. The air gleams. The starter raises his arm; sunlight flashes along the barrel, a brief, bright line.

The stadium holds its breath, and the earth seems to listen—this poised heartbeat before the sound.

Option B:

Saturday. The day finals swallow small towns; banners droop from railings; the autumn sun irons the track into a shimmering ribbon. Loudspeakers cough names in a metallic monotone; the smell of cut grass, hot rubber and sugar from the tuck stall plaits into a dizzying braid. In the centre, a silver trophy glints—half promise, half dare.

I had rehearsed the home straight in my head until the scene felt already spent: arms pumping, chest breaking the tape, my name pouring out of the speakers. Hubris arrives quietly; it hides in little nods and in the way you stop listening. Coach Vale had spoken about stride economy, about patience—about holding the plan for the first two hundred. I nodded, of course; what could go wrong? My laces were tight, my legs coiled, my confidence bright and brittle.

On your marks. Set. The pistol cracked; the world narrowed to a tunnel of noise and sun. I launched hard, slicing the air, eating the bend as if it belonged to me. The track rasped under spikes. Breath tore out in hot threads, but the early rush felt intoxicating; for a second the stadium seemed to lean with me. I could almost see the tape drawing nearer—white, innocent, inevitable.

Halfway down the back straight, inevitability fractured. A shadow slid at my shoulder: Thomas, with a neat, unshowy stride, moved past with patient precision. He didn't lunge; he collected me. My legs flooded with lactic fire. The crowd rose into a single, tidal sound. I fought—of course I fought—but the line arrived like a closed door, and I was on the wrong side of it. Second place tastes like metal.

The noise receded into polite clapping that wasn't for me. Heat pulsed from the track; the ribbon scratched my neck. Thomas shook my hand, steady-eyed, the smallest nod. Coach Vale's mouth tightened, then softened. "We talked about pacing," he said. I could list excuses, but the truth was plain: I had confused speed with control, noise with substance.

I sat by the railings, the world smelling of damp earth and lemon energy drink, and listened: to breath settling; to studs ticking as athletes walked by; to a lesson not grand but exacting. Patience is not waiting; it is choosing—choosing restraint when acceleration flatters you, choosing the plan over the surge. Defeat unclipped the gloss from my certainty, and beneath it something sturdier waited.

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

Option A:

The track holds its breath. Mid-morning light slides across the lanes, varnishing the numbers, bleaching the red into a baked rust. Starting blocks squat like small animals, patient, metal cool in the shade. Heat shivers above the straight, and beyond, the crowd ripples in uneven waves of colour; they settle, then stir, then settle again.

I fold myself down, hands splayed, fingertips gritty with rubber crumbs. My thumbs brush the chalked line; my weight leans forward; my heels are hooked, ready. The blocks press a geometry into my soles; spikes bite; calves buzz like a trapped wire. My vest is a fraction too tight and the air tastes faintly metallic, as if a coin has been tucked under my tongue.

Around us there is that particular stadium noise: not loud, exactly, but expectant—murmurs, a stray whistle, the slap of a flag in a thin wind. Someone coughs; someone shushes; somewhere a camera clicks like an insect. The scent is summer-thick: hot rubber, sun-warmed plastic, liniment, a distant sweetness from the grass beyond the fence.

To my right a runner sniffs, a small, nervous habit; to my left laces are tugged one last time. I fix my eyes on lane five’s white line and pretend it is a river that will carry me. My mind tries to scatter—Did I train enough, will my knee hold, what if—no. I gather the pieces back into one clean edge.

The official steps into our vision; his shirt is crisp, his shadow long, the pistol a stub of dark sky in his hand. It glints; it waits; it is thunder reduced to a fist. He raises it and, for a second, the world seems narrower than the width of his finger.

“On your marks.”

Bodies fold. Breath shortens. The track comes closer.

Set.

Everything reduces: heart, breath, line, gun. Even the air pauses—just for us. A bead of sweat creeps down my temple, tickling, then refusing to fall. The stadium blurs to a hush. I hold, coiled, almost flying; the second before the sound feels longer than the summer that made it. And then the finger begins to move.

Option B:

August pressed its thumbprint of heat onto the stadium; the red track shone like new clay, waiting for a mark. The lanes were narrow rivers, white lines steady as ribs, and I stood in lane four with my heart hammering against them. The tannoy crackled, somebody coughed, a gull shrieked as if it had opinions; even the wind seemed to hold its breath. Coach had squeezed my shoulder by the call-up room and said, “Contain it. Don’t spend it at the line.” I nodded, of course I did—because I had been living inside this moment for weeks, rehearsing the explosion, not the stillness.

On your marks.

The blocks were warm under my hands. Rubber, dust, the faint sting of chemical cleaner; all of it in my mouth. I tried to make my body a single arrow, polished and simple. Somewhere, a child laughed; the sound skipped across the infield and bounced in my chest.

Set.

My front foot trembled. I felt the universe tilt towards movement. The gun was a promise, the kind that cracks and gives you permission to be who you think you are. And I moved.

Not far—just the instinctive flick of a heel, a lurch of shoulders—but it was enough. The snap of my block sounded too early, a lonely clap in a silent hall. The pistol went off a half-beat later, a brutal punctuation meant for someone else. The starter’s hand flew up; the red card felt larger than a flag, larger than the sky.

“False start, lane four.”

I stood there, light-headed, while the other runners exhaled. My throat tasted of pennies. A few people hissed out sympathy; a few didn’t. The scoreboard blinked like a reprimand: FS. I wanted to argue about the gust, the gull, the way the world leaned at me—but the truth was already prickling under my skin. I had asked the moment to hurry and the moment doesn’t.

Afterwards, I sank by the long-jump pit and picked the crumbly black crumbs of track from my palms. Coach sat beside me without looking; he tossed a pebble and watched it vanish. “Speed is loud,” he said, quiet. “Discipline is quieter. Learn the quiet. Listen to the breath before the bang.”

At first, his words felt like salt on a bruise. I was humiliated—no medal, no time, no proof I was fast. Yet, only later, with the stadium slowly emptying and my heartbeat finally de-escalating, something steadied. The lesson wasn’t on the podium; it was in the pause.

Winning isn’t about going first; it’s about moving last, at exactly the right moment.

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

Option A:

The track is a strip of blue, long lines shaving the distance into lanes. Heat shimmers like breath over it. Shoes bite into the starting blocks; small metal teeth meet rubber. The crowd becomes a large, soft sound, as if someone has laid a blanket over every voice. I can smell the sharp tang of the track, chemical and clean, and the faint sweetness of summer sweat.

My fingers press into the gritty line. They tremble, a little, not from fear exactly, but from the charge that runs through the air. Calves pull tight, then tighter, like coiled rope. My chest rises and slows; rise, slow, hold. The world narrows to this small strip in front of me, painted white and straight. My name feels far away, floating somewhere in the stands; my body is here.

The starter lifts the pistol. Even the gulls seem to pause mid-cry. Time turns thick, almost visible. A bead of sweat tracks from my temple to my jaw, deliberate as a clock hand. There is only this: breath, block, line, gun. Someone coughs. A flag stirs above the stadium, and the fabric whispers.

On your marks. We fold down together, a quiet ripple. The ground is close now; it smells of rain that fell last night and dust that never leaves. Set— I climb onto my fingertips and the front of my shoes. Everything else falls away; lessons, alarms, the early mornings and the long evenings, all poured into this one second. Knees forward, eyes up, drive, drive. My heart beats like a drum being tested for the first time. The silence is loud and electric; it waits, and I wait with it, a held note that is about to break.

Option B:

Saturday. Finals day: blocks on the track, fresh chalk along the white lines. The air had an early chill that clung to my throat and made my breath sound loud. In the stands, families clustered in coats, their murmurs like small waves. I could taste metal—adrenaline, fear, hope, all mixed. Months of routine: dawn laps, burning sprints, legs heavy but heart stubborn. Today felt like the point of it all.

I tightened my laces twice even though they were fine, then pinned on my number. The safety pin pricked my thumb, a tiny shock that made me grin and wince. Across the lanes, Jess warmed up with that calm bounce she always had. She looked unbothered, like the race belonged to her. Coach said, "Don't watch her—run your own start. Keep it smooth." I nodded, but my eyes kept sliding back.

The gun cracked. We sprang. My first steps were messy; I clawed for speed instead of letting it come. Panic seeped into my calves by halfway, thick and hot. Jess moved ahead without looking, like a tide. I chased. My arms got tight, my mouth dry, and the home straight stretched like a summer mirage. Then—nothing spare. She broke the tape; I stumbled over the line after her, chest hammering. The stadium roared, but inside my head there was a hollow echo: too slow, too soon.

I wanted to be angry. I wanted to blame the wind, the lane, the start. Coach didn’t speak. He handed me water and raised an eyebrow. In that pause, I saw my mistake as clearly as the white paint under my feet: I had raced her, not me. Pride had made me rush; it had weight. Defeat stung, yes, but it also opened a quiet door. Next time would start here—with a plan, with patience. I retied my laces, slower this time.

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

Option A:

Heat trembles above the track. The stadium seems to lean in, holding its breath. Sun glints off the lane numbers; they look too clean. The starting blocks crouch like metal claws; they grip the ground. The smell of rubber, dust and sharp liniment hangs in the air. Beyond the lanes, faces blur into a patchwork of colours.

I crouch. Fingers spread, I press into the rough track; tiny stones bite. My left foot jams into the block, my right set a notch back. Calves tighten like coiled rope. My spine feels like a string pulled tight. Sweat tickles my temple. Breath comes in short sips. Adrenaline pricks my skin. Heart: thud, thud. I am small and still; the whole field waits with me.

The starter walks to his place. He clears his throat; the murmur falls. A gull glides over the roof and is gone. Wind strokes the flag; it hardly moves. “On your marks,” he calls. My name runs around my head, then fades. I look down the lane; the white line is a narrow road, a ribbon stretched into glare. Shoes creak. Somebody coughs. That cough cracks the quiet, then it heals again.

Set. Hips lift; I become angle and breath. Arms tremble, but I fix them. The gun points at the sky - a black mouth that doesn’t speak yet. Time goes slow, like syrup; every second feels thick. I count: one, two, maybe three, I can’t tell. The world is a tight drum. Wait, wait, wait. In that held beat, before noise, I am already running in my head.

Option B:

The whistle sliced through the cold evening and the pitch fell quiet. Floodlights pressed pale circles onto the wet grass, and the numbers on the board glowed like hard eyes: 2-1. My boots felt heavier than bricks, my breath clouded out, white. It was only a game, people say, but it didn’t feel like that; it felt like a door closing. When their keeper punched the air, a cheer rolled over us like a wave. I looked down at my hands, muddy, shaking.

On the bench, the wood was damp and it bit through my shorts. Coach clapped and told us to keep our heads up, but the words slid off me. The chance replayed again and again—my chance. I had trained and trained, shooting at the garage door until the paint cracked. I saw the gap, I took it, and I hit the post. A hollow sound, like an empty bin, came back; the ball bounced away and so did our hope.

Defeat is loud at first. Then it whispers. In the quiet, I heard Levi sit down beside me and the bottle in his hand rattled. “You could’ve passed,” he said, not angry, just tired. He was right, and that truth stung more than the cold. It wasn’t only the miss that hurt; it was the way I didn’t see him, the way I only saw the goal. I thought winning would make me bigger. Instead, this loss started to make me smaller—and better. I didn’t know it then, but that night would teach me to look up.

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

Option A:

My foot presses into the block; the metal is cold and gritty. The red track is close to my face, little black granules stick to my hand. I can hear breathing around me, short and sharp like hissing. Somewhere a flag lifts.

First the crowd murmurs, then they fall quiet, as if the whole place is holding its breath. The starter calls, "On your marks." We shuffle forward, spikes biting, eyes down. Set. The word hangs. In the silence my heart is a drum, too fast. Adrenaline hums in my ears; my legs feel coiled like springs, ready, ready, ready. A breeze touches my neck and smells of rubber and cut grass; the morning light sits on the lanes like a pale ribbon.

I blink. A bead of sweat rolls, it stings my eye, I want to wipe it but I can’t. My mouth is dry, my tongue heavy, but my body leans forward all by itself. Is time slowing or am I? The line ahead seems longer, wider, endless. Now nothing moves except a tiny twitch in a finger and the little tremble in my calf. The gun is almost a taste before it happens—thin, metallic, waiting. Then, a breath, a pause, a spark.

Option B:

The wind scraped across the pitch; the whistle cut the afternoon in half. My boots were heavy with wet grass. “Just hit it,” Jake said. I nodded like I knew everything. The ball waited on the white spot, bright and small like a moon.

I ran up. My heart hammered in my ears and I swing my leg too fast. My foot smacked the leather. The ball leapt, hit the bar—clang—and flew away. The net didn’t move. Silence, a breath held; then their cheer, our groan. I stared at my laces. “Sorry,” I muttered. “It’s done,” he said.

I wanted to blame the wind, the mud, the whistle that felt too quick. I wanted to vanish. The coach walked over—he wasn’t angry. “Head over the ball; pick a corner,” he said, calm and simple. It sounded easy, like a rule I should already know.

Later, on the bus home, the window showed my red face and the grey sky stacked behind it: both looked disappointed. Defeat sat heavy beside me. What if I had practised penalties after training? What if I listened instead of showing off? That day I started to learn to aim, not just to kick.

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

Option A:

The track is red and rough under my hands. My fingers press the white line. My feet sit in the blocks, toes tight. The air is cold in my mouth, like metal. I breathe in. I hold it. I breathe out, slow. My heart is loud, like a drum. The crowd is a big cloud. It moves and rustles.

The starter lifts the gun. It looks at us like a black bird. The sun is behind him and it pokes my eyes. Sweat on my neck, on my back, tick tick. A cough pops from the crowd.

Ready, says a voice. Set. We bend more. My knee shakes a bit, I try to make it still but it wont, it wont. The world gets thin, like the air has shrank. All the lanes point away. I hear my own breath and my shoes creak. Wait, wait, wait…

Option B:

Autumn. Cold air on my face, leaves on my shoes, the sky low.

I stood at the start line. I said I would win all week. My laces was tight. My heart thumped like a drum.

The whistle went and we ran. My legs was fast at the start but the hill was mean. Breath burned, my chest felt on fire. He passed me easy, he flew, I felt heavy.

I lost.

The cheer was not for me. The tape was not mine. Defeat felt heavy, like a stone in my stomack. I wanted to hide behind the shed.

Coach looked at me. Keep your head up, he said. You talk too much, you don't listen in training. I should of listen. I should of worked not bragged.

On the bus I watched rain. My knee hurt. Next time I will be quiet. I will run. I will try.

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

Option A:

The track is red and my shoes stick. My toes press on the block like a small wall. I breathe in but my breth is tight. The crowd is noise in my ear, someone coughs. The man with the gun lifts it up and holds it. The sun is on my neck. Sweat tickle. My legs shake and feel heavy. I whisper ready, ready, ready. A bird flys over the lane. I look down at the white line like a door. Wait wait wait. Do not go, go now! My heart bang like a drum. The air is still and empty.

Option B:

It was spring and the pitch was wet and my shoes slipped. The whistle was loud and my heart felt small. We was one goal down and I ran fast but the ball went wide, then the other team scored again. I fell like a stone and the mud was cold on my hands, it sting. People looked, some laughed, the coach shook his head. I wanted to shout, I thought of my maths test. On the bus i thought about it and i knew something simple: I didnt listen, I didnt pass, I didnt work. Lose first, learn after.