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, in which street was the Windsor dining-room?: Dearborn Street – 1 mark
• 1.2 In which street was the Windsor dining-room?: in Dearborn Street – 1 mark
• 1.3 How was the weather described?: blowing up cold – 1 mark
• 1.4 What could Carrie see out of her window?: the western sky – 1 mark

Question 2 - Mark Scheme

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

6 darkness. A long, thin cloud of pink hung in midair, shaped like some island in a far-off sea. Somehow the swaying of some dead branches of trees across the way brought back the picture with which she was familiar when she looked from their front window in December days at home. She paused and wrung her little hands.

11 “What’s the matter?” said Drouet. “Oh, I don’t know,” she said, her lip trembling.

How does the writer use language here to present Carrie’s mood and the scene she is looking at? 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 perceptively analyse how the minor sentence 'darkness.' forecloses light and sets a bleak tone, while the metaphor and colour imagery in 'A long, thin cloud of pink... like some island in a far-off sea' render the scene distant and dreamlike, with the lifeless adjective in 'dead branches' and the nostalgic reference to 'December days at home' deepening melancholy. It would link slow, suspended verbs—'hung,' 'swaying'—and sentence pacing to Carrie’s inner state, and closely read her body language and diminutive phrasing—'wrung her little hands,' 'her lip trembling'—alongside the faltering dialogue 'Oh, I don’t know' to show suppressed anxiety, vulnerability, and inarticulate homesickness.

The writer plunges us into Carrie’s unease through a minor sentence: “darkness.” This abrupt opening sets a bleak tone. Against this, the colour imagery of “a long, thin cloud of pink” offers a fragile thread of beauty; the adjectives “long, thin” and the verb “hung” suggest delicacy and suspension, mirroring her tentative composure. The simile “shaped like some island in a far-off sea” constructs remoteness; “far-off” connotes separation and isolation, aligning the landscape with her sense of being cut off.

Moreover, “Somehow the swaying of some dead branches” uses hedging (“Somehow”) and repetition of “some” to signal vagueness, as if she cannot name her feelings. The sibilance in “swaying... some” creates a soft, sighing sound, while “dead branches” introduces a lexis of lifelessness, a use of pathetic fallacy to reflect her melancholy. The seasonal reference to “December days at home,” reinforced by alliterative d sounds, evokes cold nostalgia; the phrase “brought back the picture” hints at involuntary memory, intensifying her homesickness.

Furthermore, the kinetic detail “She paused and wrung her little hands” foregrounds anxiety; the verb “wrung” connotes distress, and the diminutive “little” renders her childlike. Finally, the dialogue and paralinguistic detail expose her inner tremor: the interjection “Oh” and the present participle “trembling” in “her lip trembling” show an emotion she cannot articulate—“I don’t know.” Varied sentence forms—abrupt minor opening, flowing description, then clipped action—mirror her movement from numbed gloom to unsettled memory to fragile speech. Thus, language choices present a wintry scene and a mood of homesick sorrow.

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 explain how imagery and sentence form present Carrie’s uneasy mood: the minor sentence 'darkness.' and the simile 'shaped like some island in a far-off sea' from the 'long, thin cloud of pink' create a distant, isolated scene, while 'dead branches' and 'December days at home' suggest bleak nostalgia. It would also link body language and dialogue to emotion, noting 'paused and wrung her little hands' and 'her lip trembling', plus the brief reply 'Oh, I don’t know', to show anxiety and uncertainty.

The writer uses imagery and a simile to paint the scene as distant yet delicate. The cloud is “shaped like some island in a far-off sea”, a simile that makes the sky feel remote and unreachable, hinting at Carrie’s sense of isolation. The adjectives “long, thin” and the verb “hung” create a stillness, while the colour imagery of “pink” softens the “darkness,” suggesting a fleeting beauty she can’t quite grasp.

Moreover, natural imagery presents a bleak setting that mirrors her mood: the “swaying of some dead branches” combines movement with lifelessness. The noun phrase “dead branches” suggests barrenness, and “somehow” signals her uncertainty. This action “brought back the picture” of “December days at home”, a temporal reference that connotes cold, bleak nostalgia, showing how the scene triggers homesickness.

Furthermore, gesture and dialogue convey her anxiety. “She paused and wrung her little hands”: the verb “wrung” implies nervous agitation, and the diminutive adjective “little” makes her seem vulnerable. In direct speech, Drouet’s question and her hesitant interjection, “Oh, I don’t know,” reveal suppressed emotion, while the present participle in “her lip trembling” presents ongoing distress. Additionally, the minor sentence “darkness.” sets a heavy tone, framing both the scene and Carrie’s mood.

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 uses the simile shaped like some island in a far-off sea and gloomy words like darkness and dead branches to make the scene feel distant and sad. The short sentence She paused and wrung her little hands and the detail her lip trembling show Carrie is anxious and close to crying.

The writer uses a simile to describe the scene: a “long, thin cloud of pink… shaped like some island in a far-off sea.” This creates gentle imagery and makes the sky seem beautiful but distant, hinting that Carrie feels far away from comfort. Furthermore, there is pathetic fallacy in the “swaying of some dead branches” and the memory of “December days at home.” The adjective “dead” and the reference to “December” suggest a cold, bleak setting, which reflects her sad, homesick mood. Moreover, the verbs show her feelings: she “paused and wrung her little hands,” and her “lip trembling” shows anxiety and upset. The short, simple sentence “She paused and wrung her little hands.” emphasises her tension. Additionally, the dialogue “What’s the matter?” and her reply “Oh, I don’t know” present confusion, so the language shows both a bleak scene and Carrie’s fragile state.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple comment; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer uses simple descriptive words like darkness and dead branches, and a simile shaped like some island in a far-off sea, to make the scene gloomy while A long, thin cloud of pink seems soft. The short sentence She paused and wrung her little hands, the question What’s the matter?, and Oh, I don’t know, her lip trembling, show she is upset and worried.

The writer uses a simile to show the scene: the cloud is “shaped like some island in a far-off sea”, which makes it seem distant and dreamy. The colour word “pink” and the noun “darkness” create a contrast, suggesting a calm but sad mood. Moreover, the verb “hung” makes the cloud feel still. The phrase “dead branches” and “swaying” make the setting gloomy. Furthermore, Carrie “wrung her little hands” and her “lip trembling” show she is anxious. The short sentence “Oh, I don’t know” shows confusion. Therefore, these words present a quiet scene and Carrie’s sad, unsure mood.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Minor sentence and tonal opening: isolates gloom, immediately darkens atmosphere (darkness.)
• Colour and shape imagery: delicate beauty softens the scene yet feels fragile (long, thin cloud of pink)
• Simile of remoteness: suggests distance and isolation in what she sees (some island in a far-off sea)
• Static verb choice: a suspended, liminal moment mirrors her wavering mood (hung in midair)
• Movement versus lifelessness: swaying motion paired with “dead” creates unease and bleakness (swaying of some dead branches)
• Indefinite determiner repeated: vagueness mirrors her uncertain, unfixed feelings (some island)
• Memory trigger and temporal reference: recalling a familiar picture evokes homesickness and contrast with the present (December days at home)
• Diminutive and gesture: “little” and hand-wringing present vulnerability and anxiety (wrung her little hands)
• Dialogue and paralinguistic detail: hesitancy and ongoing tremor reveal suppressed distress (her lip trembling)
• Sentence length shifts: long description gives way to brief action and dialogue to focus on her emotion (She paused)

Question 3 - Mark Scheme

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

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

You could write about:

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

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

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

Level 4 (Perceptive, detailed analysis) – 7–8 marks Analyses effects of structural choices; judicious examples; sophisticated terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 4 response would trace a structural progression from close focalisation to a distancing omniscient voice: from the private pause at the window—"swaying of some dead branches"—through alienating recognition—"some great tide had rolled between them"—and the depersonalised bustle where "Carrie scarcely heard" and the mechanical "Sixty-seven". It would then analyse how the final shift to abstract generalisation—"Habits are peculiar things... the victim of habit"—widens perspective and cools the tone, deepening detachment by the end.

One way in which the writer structures the opening to create a sense of detachment is through temporal framing and external focalisation. The declarative summary, “They went to see ‘The Mikado’ one evening,” immediately positions the outing as a fait accompli, before the narration analeptically retreats to “Before going…”. This stepping back, coupled with a panoramic zoom on the “steely blue” sky and a “long, thin cloud… like some island in a far-off sea,” holds Carrie at arm’s length, inviting us to observe rather than inhabit her feeling. Even when emotion surfaces—“She paused and wrung her little hands”—the omniscient narrator keeps us outside, while Drouet’s brisk directives (“Come on… Better wear that boa”) structurally undercut intimacy, reinforcing her emotional dislocation.

In addition, the writer engineers a pivot in focus that intensifies detachment. The bustling catalogue of urban detail—“arc lights… the six o’clock throng… little shop-girls”—builds a spectacle of “warm-blooded humanity,” only for a sudden close-up on a factory girl to trigger estrangement: Carrie “felt as if some great tide had rolled between them.” This juxtaposition of crowd-immersion with a memory jolt alienates her both from her past and the present crowd. The theatre sequence then escalates this effect: the mechanical refrain of the coach-caller, “Sixty-seven… Sixty-seven,” and the “social crush” reduce individuals to numbers and surfaces. Carrie “scarcely heard” Drouet; structurally, her attention disperses into the impersonal swirl, deepening detachment.

A further structural feature is the abrupt shift to intrusive narration at the close. The scene yields to a discursive, generalising coda—“Habits are peculiar things… The victim of habit”—which decelerates narrative pace and universalises behaviour into automatic, “perfunctory” routines. This tonal deflation to aphorism—“merely done its old, unbreakable trick”—estranges both character and reader, so detachment is most pronounced by the end.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Explains effects; relevant examples; clear terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 3 response would explain how the writer structures a progression from external bustle to personal alienation: the panoramic city and crowd (e.g., "The lights in the stores were already shining out," "The arc lights were sputtering overhead," "a spectacle of warm-blooded humanity") lead to the pivot "Suddenly" when Carrie recognises the factory girl and "felt as if some great tide had rolled between them", signalling detachment. It would also note the contrast of Carrie absorbed in "the swirl of life" at the theatre before the closing shift to omniscient commentary ("Habits are peculiar things," "the still, small voice"), a structural move away from her viewpoint that deepens detachment by the end.

One way in which the writer structures the text to create detachment is through shifts in focus from close description to an impersonal crowd scene. We begin with Carrie’s private, static view: 'steely blue' sky, 'island', and minimal dialogue. The narrative then zooms out to 'the six o’clock throng', called 'a spectacle of warm-blooded humanity'. This external, observational phrasing and listing ('chattering, laughing') quicken the pace and position Carrie as an onlooker, detaching both character and reader.

In addition, the writer uses contrast to sever connections and heighten detachment. The sudden recognition of the factory girl amid 'shabby' clothes interrupts the flow, a structural break within the crowd scene. Carrie’s thought that 'some great tide had rolled between them' marks a split from her past. Immediately, within a forward-moving chronology, the focus shifts to the theatre’s 'showy foyer' and the coach-caller’s 'Sixty-seven', reducing people to units. This juxtaposition emphasises her disconnection from her former world.

A further structural feature is the late change in perspective to authorial intrusion. After the after-theatre lunch, the narrator abandons Carrie’s viewpoint for generalised commentary: 'Habits are peculiar things...' This slow, reflective paragraph zooms out, cooling the tone and, by the end, deepening the sense of detachment.

Level 2 (Some understanding and comment) – 3–4 marks Attempts to comment; some examples; some terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer moves from Carrie quietly watching the "steely blue" sky to the busy crowd where she feels a "great tide" between her and the factory girl, showing she is separate. By the end, a shift to general comment ("Habits are peculiar things") and the abrupt change signalled by "Suddenly" make the tone more distant, so the detachment deepens.

One way the writer structures detachment is in the opening focus on the cold setting and distance. The “steely blue” sky and a cloud “like some island in a far-off sea” place Carrie far from home, so the reader senses a gap from her past.

In addition, in the middle the focus shifts to the busy city and a contrast between classes. The crowd is a “spectacle of warm-blooded humanity”, and when she sees the factory girl “a great tide had rolled between them”. Even the coach-caller’s “Sixty-seven” turns people into numbers. This creates an impersonal effect.

A further structural feature is the ending change in perspective and tone. The narrative zooms out into a general comment, “Habits are peculiar things...”, which moves away from Carrie and deepens detachment by the end.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: At the start, the cold, distant setting with the steely blue sky moves into the busy city of the six o’clock throng, but Carrie feels apart as if some great tide had rolled between them. By the end, the general statement Habits are peculiar things creates an impersonal, detached tone.

One way the writer structures detachment is the opening focus on setting before people. The cold sky, “steely blue”, and a memory of home make Carrie feel apart from now.

In addition, there is a shift in focus to the busy street, then to the factory girl. “A tide had rolled between them” shows contrast and Carrie’s separation from her old life.

A further structural feature is the ending shift to the narrator’s general talk about “Habits.” This change in viewpoint and tone feels distant and thoughtful, so detachment is strongest by the end.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Impersonal, summary opening frames the outing as routine, keeping events at arm’s length from the start (They went to see)
• Wide, external sky description prioritises surface observation over inner feeling, cooling the emotional temperature (steely blue)
• Cut from present view to past memory disrupts continuity, dislocating Carrie from the moment at hand (dead branches)
• Brief, perfunctory dialogue inserts minimal intimacy, its generic reassurance reinforcing emotional distance (you’re all right)
• Crowded street montage piles up external details, isolating Carrie within the mass and stressing her smallness (spectacle of warm-blooded)
• Recognition pivot juxtaposes past and present lives, marking a widening gulf that intensifies detachment (great tide had rolled)
• Compressed chronology by summary keeps experience superficial, sustaining a cool, observational tone (They dined and went)
• Foyer sequence centres impersonal procedures (number-calling), reducing people to units and muting interiority (Sixty-seven)
• Structural hinge to moral looseness severs former routines, preparing the shift from scene to abstraction (no household law)
• Final authorial intrusion universalises into essay-like commentary, stepping back from character perspective to enforce distance (Habits are peculiar things)

Question 4 - Mark Scheme

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

In this part of the source, when Carrie sees the girl from the factory, she is clearly shocked and embarrassed. The writer suggests that Carrie now sees her old life as something terrible to escape from.

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

In your response, you could:

• consider your impressions of Carrie when she sees the factory girl
• comment on the methods the writer uses to suggest Carrie's feelings about her past
• support your response with references to the text. [20 marks]

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

Evaluate texts critically and support with appropriate textual references.

Level 4 (Perceptive, detailed evaluation) – 16–20 marks Perceptive ideas; perceptive methods; critical detail on impact; judicious detail. Indicative Standard: A Level 4 response would largely agree, showing how the writer codes Carrie’s shock and embarrassment via the distancing metaphor "some great tide had rolled between them" and the physical jolt "She actually started" as she confronts the "poorly dressed", "shabby" factory crowd. It would then evaluate viewpoint by analysing the contrastive allure of "colour and grace", "fine ladies" in the "showy foyer" and Carrie’s "vain imaginings" of "place and power", alongside the intrusive aside "Habits are peculiar things"/"The victim of habit", to argue the text frames her escape as socially conditioned aspiration rather than pure moral disgust.

I largely agree with the statement. In the moment of recognition, Carrie is visibly shocked and faintly embarrassed; more broadly, the writer orchestrates a sustained contrast that implies she now conceives of her former life as a drab rut to be escaped, though “terrible” perhaps overstates her own conscious revulsion.

The encounter is framed as a sharp shock. The adverb “Suddenly” signals an abrupt shift, and the triadic description of the “poorly dressed girls”—“faded,” “old,” “shabby”—creates a lexical field of decay that immediately distances Carrie’s present from her past. The metaphor “Carrie felt as if some great tide had rolled between them” suggests not just difference but an insurmountable, naturalised gulf, implying she now belongs to another shore. The short, emphatic clause “She actually started” foregrounds her physical recoil, while “bumped into a pedestrian” shows fluster, a bodily manifestation of embarrassment. Crucially, the analeptic flash—“The old dress and the old machine came back”—reduces her former existence to two synecdoches of drudgery, “old” repeated to stress obsolescence. In this way, the writer’s choices fuse shock with a desire to disown what that glance revives.

Structurally, the narrative sweeps her away at once: “They dined and went to the theatre.” This paratactic pacing mimics how quickly the past is eclipsed. In the theatre scene, sensory opulence—“colour and grace,” “skirts rustling,” “white teeth showing,” the coach-caller’s “euphonious cry”—constructs a spectacle whose allure is intoxicating. Carries “vain imaginings about place and power” introduces a narratorial judgement that her aspiration is tinged with vanity, yet it underlines how fully her gaze has shifted toward “far-off lands and magnificent people.” The “showy foyer,” the “throng of fine ladies,” and Drouet’s flattery (“You look lovely!”) embed her in a world that valorises display; the metaphor “her head was so full of the swirl of life” presents her as swept along by a glamorous current, a deliberate counterpoint to the factory’s mechanical stillness. The cumulative effect is to magnify the gulf from the “shabby” past and make escape feel not only desirable but inevitable.

Finally, the authorial intrusion on habit reframes the old life as constricting: “Habits are peculiar things… the victim of habit… out of the rut… unbreakable trick… perfunctory.” This abstract, aphoristic commentary supplies a critical lens: what might be mistaken for conscience is mere conditioning, and there is “no household law to govern her now.” Thus the past is figured as a deadening routine—something to shrug off—rather than a moral anchor.

Overall, I agree to a great extent: the writer presents Carrie as startled and abashed at the reminder of her origins, and, through stark juxtaposition and pointed commentary, suggests she sees that old world as a stultifying rut to escape, even if her response is driven more by aspiration than by horror.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant evaluation) – 11–15 marks Clear ideas; clear methods; clear evaluation of impact; relevant references. Indicative Standard: A typical Level 3 response would largely agree, noting Carrie’s shock and embarrassment through the metaphor "some great tide had rolled between them" and her physical reaction—she "actually started" and "bumped into a pedestrian"—on seeing the "poorly dressed girls" from the factory. It would also explain how contrast and aspiration suggest she wants to escape her past, as the "colour and grace" of the theatre and her "vain imaginings" among "fine ladies" and talk of "we’ll have a coach" make "the old machine" feel distant and undesirable.

I mostly agree with the statement. When Carrie meets the factory girl, the writer presents her as clearly shocked and flustered, and then contrasts that moment with a glamorous world which Carrie clings to, suggesting she wants to escape her past.

At the point of recognition, the writer foregrounds embarrassment through physical reaction. The “pair of eyes” meeting hers from a group of “poorly dressed girls” is described with an adjectival cluster — “faded,” “loose‑hanging,” “old,” “shabby” — creating a stark, degrading image of poverty. Carrie’s response is immediate: “She actually started,” and even “bumped into a pedestrian,” which implies she is shaken and self‑conscious. The metaphorical comparison “as if some great tide had rolled between them” emphasises distance; the tide image suggests an unbridgeable gulf between her present and “the old dress and the old machine.” This contrast in lexis and imagery supports the idea that Carrie is both shocked by the reminder and eager to place that world behind her.

Afterwards, structural shift and sensory description highlight her attraction to a new life. The theatre’s “colour and grace” and the “finery and gayety” of the foyer are set against the earlier shabbiness, a clear juxtaposition. Carrie’s “vain imaginings about place and power… far‑off lands and magnificent people” show aspirational thinking; the noun “vain” hints at superficiality, but also that she values status over the factory. Compliments like “You look lovely!” and the promise “we’ll have a coach” draw her further into this glittering scene, while her head is “so full of the swirl of life,” suggesting intoxication with escape.

Finally, the narrator’s commentary on “habit” and the “scratch in the brain” frames any lingering qualm as routine rather than moral conscience: “no household law” governs her now. Overall, I agree to a large extent: Carrie is clearly shocked and embarrassed, and the writer’s use of contrast, imagery, and narrative intrusion suggests she sees her old life as something to leave behind, even if “terrible” may overstate it.

Level 2 (Some evaluation) – 6–10 marks Some understanding; some methods; some evaluative comments; some references. Indicative Standard: A Level 2 response would mostly agree that Carrie is shocked and embarrassed, using simple quotations like "she actually started", "bumped into a pedestrian", and "some great tide had rolled between them". It would also identify basic methods, such as contrast between the factory girls’ "shabby" look and the theatre’s "finery and gayety", and her "vain imaginings" of "place and power", to suggest she wants to escape her old life.

I mostly agree with the statement. When Carrie meets the factory girl’s eyes, the writer shows immediate shock and embarrassment. The list of adjectives “poorly dressed… faded… loose-hanging… shabby” creates a harsh visual image of poverty, and Carrie “actually started,” a clear physical reaction. The metaphor “some great tide had rolled between them” suggests sudden distance and perhaps shame; she even “bumped into a pedestrian,” showing she is flustered.

After this, the structure shifts to the theatre, and the writer uses contrast to show how far Carrie now wants to be from that world. The sensory imagery of “colour and grace” glamorises her new life, and Carrie is so absorbed she “scarcely heard,” her head full of the “swirl of life.” She also has “vain imaginings about place and power… magnificent people,” which implies ambition and a desire to escape the factory past.

Finally, the narrative voice comments on “habit.” Phrases like “no household law to govern her now” and the idea of the “victim of habit” imply her old routines were restrictive. This supports the idea she wants to escape, though “vain” hints that her judgment is immature rather than that her past was truly awful.

Overall, I agree that she is shocked and embarrassed, and I partly agree that she sees her old life as something to escape, but it is the allure of finery more than pure disgust that drives her.

Level 1 (Simple, limited) – 1–5 marks Simple ideas; limited methods; simple evaluation; simple references. Indicative Standard: A Level 1 response would mostly agree, saying Carrie is shocked and embarrassed because she "actually started" and "bumped into a pedestrian." It would also say she wants to escape her old life as she prefers the "finery" and has "vain imaginings about place and power."

I mostly agree with the statement. When Carrie sees the factory girl she is shocked and embarrassed. The writer shows this when “she actually started” and “bumped into a pedestrian,” which suggests she is flustered.

The description of the girls as “poorly dressed... faded... shabby” makes the old life seem unattractive. The phrase “as if some great tide had rolled between them” is a simile that shows there is a gap between Carrie and the factory. It suggests she wants distance from that past.

After this, the trip to the theatre suggests she is escaping into a new world. The “colour and grace” and the “throng of fine ladies” make her eyes “alight.” This contrast between the “old dress and the old machine” and the “finery and gayety” makes the past look worse. She has “vain imaginings about place and power,” which shows she is dreaming of a higher life.

At the end, there is “just a shade of a thought of the hour,” but “no household law to govern her,” so she ignores old habits. Overall, I agree that she is shocked and embarrassed, and the writer suggests she sees her old life as something to get away from.

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:

• Immediate physical startle conveys genuine shock at being confronted with her past, supporting agreement with the first claim (She actually started).
• Metaphor of separation suggests emotional distance and latent shame, implying the encounter is awkward and identity-threatening (great tide had rolled).
• Visual contrast of the workers’ appearance frames the factory world as drab and inferior, inviting the sense it’s a life to leave behind (poorly dressed girls).
• The allure of social spectacle and status glamorises the alternative, intensifying her impulse to reject the old milieu (fine ladies).
• Ambition signals active repudiation of prior limits; the narrator’s judgement hints her escape is aspirational more than principled (vain imaginings).
• Minimal conscience or restraint indicates she has shed past rules, so escape feels liberating rather than morally fraught (no household law).
• Authorial commentary recasting conscience as habit undercuts the idea of deep moral revulsion, tempering “terrible to escape from” (still, small voice).
• Drouet’s flattery and promise of prestige pull her upward, heightening potential embarrassment at being seen by a former coworker (we’ll have a coach).
• Her rapt attention to luxury suggests the past is eclipsed, not agonised over, so the revulsion claim is only partial (swirl of life).
• The swift shift from shock to enjoyment shows brief discomfort, supporting “shocked” but limiting the extent of horror at her old life (dined and went).

Question 5 - Mark Scheme

Your college tech society is publishing a page of creative writing about places where technology quietly does the heavy lifting.

Choose one of the options below for your entry.

• Option A: Write a description of a hidden data centre from your imagination. You may choose to use the picture provided for ideas:

• Option B: Write the opening of a story about a sudden systems outage.

(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:

From the street, it is an afterthought: a squat rectangle of poured concrete, veiled behind ornamental birch and benign signage—Distribution, Unit 6. The façade is unequivocally ordinary; vans reverse and reversing alarms peck at the air; a cigarette butt winks in the gutter. Even the wind forgets it. You would, too, but for the door—thick, unyielding, stamped ACCESS CONTROLLED—whose seams hold back a colder weather no forecast recorded.

Inside, the world attenuates. The air keeps a clinical chill; the light is an idea of light, blue and aquatic. A vestibule, then another: rubber-lipped doors sigh closed, the faintest negative pressure tasting your sleeve. Underfoot, tessellated tiles crackle with anti-static bravado. Somewhere, not yet seen, something hums with the certainty of a tuned engine; concurrently, a red eye blinks from a camera, considering you—impartially, inexorably.

Beyond, the corridor opens into aisles of night. Servers stand in serried ranks, black-bright and immaculate, their obsidian faces freckled by LEDs that pulse in disciplined constellations: blue, green, amber—syllables in a language you do not speak. Cold aisles exhale; hot aisles inhale; the room’s breath is metronomic, a body made of metal and code. Cables—a choreography of braided colours—run like veins above and beneath, vanishing into floor grilles with priestly discretion. The sound is everywhere and nowhere, an implacable, oceanic thrum.

Time here does not tick; it accumulates. It gathers as packets, as pings, as streams invisible and indispensable—almost invisibly. The machines are industrious and indifferent. They do not tire. They remember—everything—and forget nothing. A wall panel glows with the map of elsewhere: traffic arcing like meteors, latency rendered as neon calligraphy. Beautiful, in a monastic way; faintly terrifying, because nothing so quiet should be so voracious.

Occasionally, a human passes—hooded fleece, lanyard, the halo of a head torch left on—treading with the reverence of a librarian. Voices, if any, are kept small; fabric-wrapped panels sip at sound. A tablet flickers, a door clicks, a fan module is lifted and replaced with surgical briskness. Discipline lives in the details: ties cinched, labels inked, a palm resting on a machine to feel the health of its heart.

Outside, traffic gnashes and gulls argue over a split sandwich; here, the universe keeps its counsel. The lives we project—the blurred photograph of a birthday candle, the impatient reroute, the ledger’s decimals marching into certainty—arrive and are swallowed, sorted, served. You might call it the city’s hidden cathedral, but the metaphor is both too much and not enough. What sanctuary smells faintly of coolant and ozone (a sterile tang that clings to the tongue)? What altar hums? Nevertheless, in this austere aquarium of light, the world rehearses its memory, again and again.

Option B:

Monday. The building hummed with invisible mathematics; screens glowed, servers whispered; people swam through tabs as if the day itself had been neatly pre-loaded. Across the glass, the city was another circuit board, soldered and certain. Keys clicked, coffee steamed; passwords were typed and retyped; tasks queued; updates installed. Beneath the carpet, fibres ferried packets with the discretion of veins; beneath the floor, a cold river of air held the racks in equilibrium. All of it ordinary; all of it miraculous.

Maya leaned closer to her monitor, tracing the green river of uptime that had flowed unbroken for months. A minor tremor appeared—latency flickered, then smoothed—a skipped beat. She typed a note—patch after stand-up, investigate the edge router.

At 09:17 the hum unspooled. It didn’t fade; it fell. A curt click from somewhere deep, a sigh as fans slowed, then the abrupt theatre-curtain of black: rows of artificial daylight erased at once. Silence swelled, not absence but an arrival. The office was suddenly all breath and shoe soles and the insect-buzz of an emergency light waking to amber.

‘Is it just me?’ someone asked the dark; someone else laughed—too bright, too brittle—and poked a dead trackpad. Phones came up like talismans: spinning wheels; No Service; an apologetic, unhelpful exclamation mark. No signal, no status, no solace.

From the corridor, the UPS began to beep with metronomic insistence. Maya could smell something faintly metallic, a ghost of ozone; feel the abrupt cool of a screen now radiating nothing. Her fingers reached for a shortcut that no longer existed. She stood.

‘Server room,’ she said, and although nobody had asked her for a plan, people turned; habits are hierarchies.

The lift doors stared back, inert. Card readers were as dark as agate. Security had already lit a paper logbook; the guard’s pen scratched. ‘Manual override’s on the landing,’ he offered, and Maya nodded—thank you, yes—and took the stairs two at a time.

On each landing, the city showed its own outages: traffic lights stuttering to amber; offices across the road glittering with the same artificial dusk. It was wider, deeper, less containable.

Heat hit her at the server-room door: a dry, relentless breath. The UPS chorus was louder here, urgent and precise. She keyed the manual latch and slid inside. Some machines still lived on battery; their status lights blinked in patterns she knew like a language. One rack, though, held a strangeness: a console pulsed a single line.

Shutdown invoked by unknown user.

The words were almost banal on the monochrome screen; yet they carried the intimacy of handwriting. Not a storm; not a caprice of the grid. Someone, somewhere, had spoken to her systems—quietly, decisively—and the building had obeyed.

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

Option A:

Behind the scuffed door of an anonymous warehouse, a winter-blue pulse lives. The keypad winks green; a camera nests in the corner like a quiet spider. When the lock releases, the door exhales and the air spills out, a clean, metallic cold that catches at the throat. There are no windows; the world outside is left at the threshold. Somewhere within, something hums—a steady, bone-level sound that feels less like noise and more like weather.

The corridor is narrow, precise as a surgical cut. Racks rise on either side like black ribs; behind their lattice doors, a thousand diodes blink—blue, amber, white—a punctuated language no mouth speaks. Fibre lines curve in disciplined arcs; trays are combed, methodical. Air slices through at an unchanging pace; fans spin. The hum goes on and on, on and on, on and on. It is so constant it is hypnotic; it absorbs thought; it makes you smaller, careful, slow.

At intervals, a tiny click; a relay; a brief blink swells and softens, like a heartbeat. The chilled aisles breathe—cold enough to bleach your breath (a fragile ghost), dry enough to wick moisture from skin. The light is blue-tinted, rinsing colour from your hands until they look underwater. Labels whisper in standardised fonts; warning triangles bloom like tiny suns. Under the raised floor, cables roam in bundled rivers; above, silver ducts flex and glitter. Somewhere, a generator sleeps—diesel and certainty—waiting to be needed.

Concurrently, above ground, buses grumble and pigeons argue; rain scribbles on pavements; people mislay umbrellas. Down here, the building keeps its own weather and its own midnight. This place is a beehive and a chapel, both—busy with invisible work, reverent about order. Packets of data—maps, messages, invoices, confessions—rush along fibres faster than thought; distant voices cross, touch, separate. Redundancy is the doctrine: twin power feeds, twin cooling loops; twin routes for everything. Nothing is left to luck.

A technician passes, soft-footed, his high-vis jacket blue-softened; he listens as if to a sea and notes a reading. On a monitor, the world flickers as graphs and quiet horizons. No windows, no clocks, yet this room keeps the daylight of the world alive. Who would guess, from the blank wall outside, that a city’s nerve thrums beyond it? The door seals; the hum is swallowed, tucked back into concrete. Hidden, deliberate, the blue heart continues—indispensable, and almost invisible.

Option B:

Morning. The hour of orchestrated ease; lifts sighed; screens bloomed; fans exhaled behind the walls. The building leaned into its ritual. Keycards—brief flickers of light—permitted passage. Inside, code ran clean lines like rails: invisible, decisive, taken-for-granted. Maya liked that, the way success looked like nothing at all. No drama, no smoke, just green ticks and the comfort of ordinary.

She slid into her chair and the dashboard greeted her: a constellation of metrics, each dot behaving, each graph a quiet river. Green meant calm; red, questions. She could read them almost without looking—habit more than heroism. Her coffee smelled faintly of burnt sugar; the cup left a brown ring beside her keyboard. A message from her mother pulsed; she smiled and didn't reply. At noon there would be a minor update; nothing dramatic. Routine, she told herself. Routine is a promise.

It happened so gently that her brain, at first, refused it. A blink. A hiccup of light. The cool hum missed a beat, like a heart catching on a stair. Then the screens went dark—one, then three, then all—and the room absorbed its own sound. The dashboards didn't flash red; they vanished. The air changed. She heard, absurdly, someone drop a teaspoon, a thin clink in the new silence. Her cursor hung mid-task and froze. Then nothing. No network, no netting. A fall without a falling.

Maya stood too fast, knees knocking the desk. Around her, chairs scraped; faces, lit by emergency strips, folded into uncertain shapes. 'Is it us?' someone asked, as if the building were misbehaving. Phone—no signal. Laptop—useless without the server's handshake. Landline: an attenuated dial tone. She called the contingency number and read the laminated card: isolate segments; verify power; initiate failover. Jargon that was supposed to calm. She was scared, though she wished she wasn't, because it wasn't just the office; the revolving doors had stalled like stuck clocks.

At the window, the street had changed its posture. The crossing beeps were silent; buses idled. A shopkeeper stood in his doorway with a card machine, as if it had whispered bad news. The outage was not neat; it spilled. It reached beyond payroll and printers into things that breathe: prescriptions, monitors, trains waiting for signals. What fails when the invisible fails? Everything that pretends not to care. Maya pressed her palm to the glass and made herself breathe. Then she turned back toward the servers.

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

Option A:

Down a service road at the back of an ordinary warehouse, a door hides in plain sight. It is painted the colour of wet concrete; it offers no sign, no logo, only a keypad that blinks a single green. It does not whisper, yet it hushes the yard. Step through and the world you carried with you—traffic, geese on the canal, rain on corrugated roofs—falls away like coats shrugged from shoulders.

Inside, the air is startlingly dry and cold, conditioned to a stubborn degree. A corridor runs straight, lit cobalt-blue that pools on the floor tiles. The sound arrives as a soft pressure first: a dense hum that thickens the air; then it resolves into countless fans, rotating. Footsteps are swallowed by the raised floor (a perforated grid that breathes). Here, even light seems to have a job, labelling edges, thinning shadows.

Racks of servers stand in regimented aisles, black cabinets with glass faces, like aquariums for a species of light. Their LEDs blink an indifferent constellation. Between them, cold aisles and hot aisles divide the weather; plastic curtains dangle like supermarket strips, managing the climate with care. Cameras peer from corners; a motion sensor blinks, a tiny eyelid. Somewhere, a screen displays temperatures in pale graphs, the heartbeat of the room made numerical.

Cables descend in colour-coded vines, clipped and disciplined, yet still trying to loop and wander. Overhead, silver ducting criss-crosses highways; underfoot, the floor hides more routes and more secrets. The smell is faintly metallic—ozone, dust that never quite settles, the clean sting of plastic. Touch nothing, says a sign. The walls feel attentive. When a server is pulled, the fans complain, a higher whine, then calm returns.

Beyond these insulated panels, the city asks questions it will never hear answered: banks, schools, lovers at two a.m.—all of them arrive here as pulses, as packets, as instructions buried in the hum. The room does not know their stories; it keeps them anyway. It is hidden but central, windowless yet full of a blue, artificial weather. When I step back into daylight, the hum remains in my chest, a persistent engine.

Option B:

The building had a heartbeat: a low, metronomic hum that ran beneath the click of keys and the muted chatter. In the operations room the wall of monitors glowed like a pale constellation; graphs pulsed, numbers climbed, little green checks winked as if pleased with themselves. Maya, a junior analyst in too-new shoes, measured calm by that hum. She could set her watch by the fans and the tick of statuses updating, as if the building breathed for all of them.

At 09:17 the heartbeat skipped.

First it was a flicker no one owned: a lagging cursor, a graph that stopped mid-wave. Then the constellation went blind. One screen, then ten, then all of them emptied to the same grey-blue stare. The hum dipped to a stunned quiet; the air-conditioning held its breath. Refresh. Ping. A half-remembered shortcut—nothing. The status page refused to load, a window blinking like an eye in shock.

Phones began to ring; not in order, in a rising, unhelpful chorus. 'Ops?' someone called from beyond the glass, 'My screen's gone.' Another voice: 'The tills are down.' Beyond their floor the outage spread like spilled ink. Lifts stalled. In the warehouse conveyors froze, boxes stranded like little islands. The building's confidence thinned until people spoke in careful, flat voices, as if not to startle it.

Maya stood. The server-room reader blinked an anaemic red but let her through; inside, the usual cold had weakened. Fans that always sang coughed in bursts, LEDs blinking—tiny hearts complaining. The smell was sharp and plasticky, like a blown match. On the wall the emergency checklist: Step 1: breathe. Step 2: assess power. Step 3: communicate. She breathed, counted four, and peered at the UPS panel: batteries engaged; mains lost.

She lifted the radio. 'Operations to all teams,' she said, 'we have a systems outage affecting core services; switch to manual where you can and keep notes.' Static climbed the channel; a few words made it through, tinny and stranded. She tried again, aware of the alarm’s single, stubborn beep. For a moment Maya pictured the whole company balanced on a thin wire of electricity, and felt the wire had already frayed.

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

Option A:

Behind an unmarked door at the back of a dull, concrete unit, the air changes. A cold, clinical breath slips out, brushing the skin like winter water. The lights are not white but a measured blue that washes the corridor and settles in shallow pools. Tall, black racks stand in rows—silent soldiers, or so they seem. Then the sound arrives: a steady hum, not one note, but layers, like distant bees at noon.

Cables crawl beneath the grated tiles; they snake into cabinets and vanish. Small green and amber eyes flicker in patterns that make no sense, yet they are confident. The fans spin round and round, pushing out air that is dry, filtered, almost sweet. Overhead, narrow pipes gleam; when I move, my steps are swallowed by the noise. The corridor seems to stretch forever, repeating itself: blue, black, blink.

Security clasps everything together. A camera watches from a high corner, with one red dot that blinks like a heartbeat. Card readers wait; a soft beep, a click, and another gate opens. Their faces are blank, yet there’s a sense of attention, as if the whole place is listening and measuring. A technician passes with a trolley; he nods but does not talk—there is no room for chat here.

What lives in this hidden place is not alive, and still it carries us. Buried in the humming boxes are messages we forgot to send, songs we love, maps, arguments, quiet photographs. They move without footsteps, travelling through cables like rivers; the racks drink them, sort them, keep them. Somewhere above, the street keeps being ordinary—a van backs up, a gull shouts, nobody thinks about the door. Inside, the blue light holds steady; the hum is endless; the numbers go on and on until the corridor ends at another locked door.

Option B:

Monday. The kind of day that slides past without complaint: grey sky, stale air, the low hum of machines sewing our small tasks together. Status lights winked a patient green along the far wall, and the air conditioning murmured like a careful nurse. I tightened the tie I never wear and opened my presentation for the ten o'clock pitch; three minutes to spare, enough to breathe.

It happened without drama at first, almost politely. The cursor froze mid-blink; the hum thinned; the lights flickered as if they were uncertain of themselves—and then a deep, simple silence. Screens turned the colour of rain. Somewhere, a printer sighed and gave up. The clock kept going, unbothered.

"Is it me?" Saira whispered, half-joking, already pressing keys that did nothing. Phones lifted like reflexes, then fell: no bars, just a spinning wheel that spun and spun. I clicked Save out of habit, as if habit could anchor anything; the button did not even pretend to work. Weeks of work sat behind glass, still and unreachable.

We stood up together, drawn by the same idea: check the server room, find the switch. The corridor felt different without the thin electrical buzz. The lift doors stayed shut; the emergency lights, small and shy, glowed along the skirting. Through the window, the crossing outside held its breath—cars hesitating, drivers waving with brittle patience. Somewhere far off, a siren trembled, then stopped.

My pass hit the server room reader and came away dumb. No beep. No green circle. On the other side of the grey door, racks of machines waited like a choir with no song. I checked my bag for the old USB I didn't need any more; fingers met lint and a crumpled receipt. Time collected in the corners, thick and slow. "Okay," I said, to no one in particular, "now what?"

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

Option A:

At first, it is only a plain door behind the supermarket, near bins and oil stains. Hidden in plain sight: a boxy building with no signs, a silent wall. A small card reader winks; a camera blinks like a tired eye. Cold air leaks from the edges, smelling of metal.

Inside, the corridor narrows into blue. Rows of black cabinets stand on each side; they look like tall lockers but harder. The floor is a raised grid, it clicks under my shoes. Cold air pours through the squares and crawls up my sleeves. Cables run under the mesh like veins, like vines.

The sound is steady, a humming that fills your ribs. LEDs flicker—red, amber, green—soft constellations on every face. There is rows of servers with labels: CORE, BACKUP, NODE 12; not a name in sight. Screens show graphs climbing then falling. No windows; no weather; the room keeps its own season. The place works together; fans spin, modules breathe, vents swallow the heat.

Outside, people click send and forget, but their words pass through here. The centre eats electricity and turns it into quiet; it keeps secrets that don’t even know they are secrets. It never sleeps—only hums, humming and humming. A warning light quivers on a back panel. I touch the cabinet, cool and grainy, and it shivers, or maybe I do. When I go, the blue stays behind, steady, steady, steady.

Option B:

At 9:17, the office hummed like a tired beehive. Keyboards clicked, printers coughed, the kettle steamed. I balanced my headset on one ear and watched a green bar creep across the screen; updates again, slow as treacle. Carl joked the network had Monday blues, and we laughed, a little.

It happened in one blink. The lights flickered; the screens blinked; everything paused. Then the room exhaled and went still. Monitors died: black glass. The air con stuttered and fell silent, and with it went the small buzz we don’t notice until it stops. The office felt huge, like a hall after a concert. For a second we waited, it didn’t come back.

Phones lit up but showed nothing. No signal. A voicemail icon tried to appear and froze. I stood, unsure what to do first—tell the clients, check the server cupboard, or just breathe. First the elevator beeped and stuck on floor four; then the automatic doors failed, half open like a mouth that forgot its words. I grabbed my pass and ran to the cupboard by the kitchen: warm air, a dry, electric smell. The rack should have been a small city of lights; now only one red dot blinked like a lonely star. Carl arrived behind me, his steps too loud. “We’ve lost it all?” he said. “Not all,” I said, trying to sound calm, “maybe the main switch tripped, or the backup.” My phone vibrated uselessly in my palm. The office was rising—voices, chairs scraping, questions piling. Then, somewhere down the corridor, a siren began.

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

Option A:

The corridor was narrow and blue-lit, like the inside of a winter evening. The air tasted of metal and something else: cold, clean, almost like rain that can't fall. Rows of black towers stood on either side, each one breathing, humming, whispering. Cables curled along the floor like sleeping snakes; my hand brushed one and it trembled.

I moved slower, my shoes tapping, the sound swallowed by the constant noise. It wasn't loud, but it got inside my chest; a steady thrum that made the ribs buzz. Little lights blinked green, blue, amber—polite eyes watching me. Sometimes they blinked together, like they agreed, then drifted apart again.

There were no windows, no clocks, only the air-conditioning pushing out a sharp wind from hidden vents. The fluorescent signs were small and bossy, arrows pointing deeper. It felt hidden because the world outside did not matter here: the centre was a kind of brain, and we were just feet and fingers. I could smell warm plastic and dust, the kind you never really clean. At the end a door with a red strip waited, patient. Beyond it, more of the same; more glow, more hum, more secrets that hummed and hummed.

Option B:

Morning on Floor 7 always began with a hum. Keyboards tapping, printers warming up, the soft rush of air-con. Monitors poured out light like shallow pools; tiny green LEDs winked along the server room wall, safe and steady. Jade was sat at her desk with a too-hot coffee, scrolling through tickets, ears half on the chatter. Then 9:17 happened. Her cursor froze mid-hop. The email she was typing held its breath. A low beep stuttered, flickered—stopped. Screens blinked; one by one they went black while the strip lights kept buzzing.

Nothing. “Is it just me?” someone said, too loud in the quiet. Jade tapped the power button. Once. Again. Nothing. Mr Khan hurried from the glass room: “Stay calm, it’s a system glitch,” he said, but his voice was thin. Phones stopped ringing; the room sounded suddenly huge, like a hall after the band has left. Passwords, reports, orders: all trapped behind the dark glass. Sam from IT arrived with a rucksack—screwdrivers rattled. “It’s the network, it’s wide,” he said, fingers flying, then slowing. A spinning wheel appeared and dissapeared. Jade took a breath; she would wait, but every second felt heavier than it should.

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

Option A:

The door is plain and grey, like a wall. No name on it. If you push it, it opens to a long blue hall that hums and hums. The air is like a fridge, it bites your skin and your breath looks white, almost. It feels hidden, under the noise of the street.

Tall black boxes stand in rows. They are the servers, I think. Tiny lights blink like stars, or eyes that never sleep. Cables crawl down the sides like black snakes. The floor is metal and it rattles. It smells clean, and dust, and something sharp, like rain in a tin.

A small camera watches. No one talks here - the fans talk, whir, whir, whir. It goes on and on and it don't stop. The wires run into the dark and go everywhere. I feel small in the blue. The place is hidden and it keeps secrets.

Option B:

Morning in the office was normal. Keyboards tapping, screens glowing like little moons, the air smelling like old coffee. We had lists, we had work, we had the same song on the radio again. Phones ringing, voices low, the hum of machines that never stop.

Then everything went off.

The system was down.

The lights blinked and went out, the screens went black like eyes closing. The hum was gone. A big quiet sat down. I said hello into my headset but its dead. I press the keys, they dont do nothing, the mouse wont move and the printer froze with a half page out like a tongue.

Someone laughed and then stopped. Do we shout, do we wait, do we go? The boss said stay calm but his voice was shaking. Outside the window the sky just kept going, it didnt care. I try to save again but I cant, I remeber the file and my name looks wrong.

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

Option A:

I go down the narrow hall. Blue light is on the walls. The machines hum, a low sound that never stops. It is hidden behind a plain door, nobody looks at it, not really. The air is cold and dry, it bites my arms. Wires run under floor like snakes, not moving. The fans spin and spin, on and on, on and on. I hear tiny beeps, it feels like a heartbeat but it is not. Outside I think of the street, sun and cars, it feel far. In the corner there is a chair with a cup, no one is here.

Option B:

The room is bright and then it isnt. The lights cut and the screens go black, all at once, like someone shut the sky. I stare. A little red light blinks and the beep beep stops. It is quiet, too quiet, I can hear my own breath and the tick of a clock, and the fan not spinning anymore. We are in the office, we was doing the report and the numbers were nearly done but now nothing works so I just sit. I press the power button again and again but nothing. I think about lunch, maybe chips, my stomach makes a noise, it echoes in the dark