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 What did the narrator place upon the top of the wooden case?: the narrator's revolver – 1 mark
• 1.2 After Holmes closed the lantern, what reassured the narrator that the light was still present?: The smell of hot metal – 1 mark
• 1.3 After Holmes shuts the lantern's slide, what indicates to the narrator that the light has not been extinguished?: The narrator notices the smell from the hot metal, showing the lantern is still alight. – 1 mark
• 1.4 What sensory clue assured the narrator that Holmes's lantern was still ready despite the darkness?: A metallic smell lingering in the air – 1 mark

Question 2 - Mark Scheme

Look in detail at this extract, from lines 26 to 35 of the source:

26 At first it was but a lurid spark upon the stone pavement. Then it lengthened out until it became a yellow line, and then, without any warning or sound, a gash seemed to open and a hand appeared, a white, almost womanly hand, which felt about in the centre of the little area of light. For a minute or more the hand, with its writhing fingers, protruded out of the floor. Then it was

31 withdrawn as suddenly as it appeared, and all was dark again save the single lurid spark which marked a chink between the stones. Its disappearance, however, was but momentary. With a rending, tearing sound, one of the broad, white stones turned over upon its side and left a square,

How does the writer use language here to build suspense and show the intruders’ arrival? 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: Anaphoric sequencing ("At first... Then... and then") and visceral imagery escalate from a lurid spark and yellow line to a gash seemed to open and a hand appeared — a white, almost womanly hand with writhing fingers — casting the arrival as an uncanny, wound-like intrusion. A terse, adversative sentence, "Its disappearance, however, was but momentary," and the contrast between silence (without any warning or sound) and onomatopoeic rending, tearing sound, as the stone turned over, manipulate pace to heighten suspense and confirm the intruders’ breakthrough.

The writer builds suspense through incremental colour imagery and metaphor. The shift from “a lurid spark” to “a yellow line” stages a slow, visual unfurling, the adjective “lurid” carrying a sickly, unnatural glow that unsettles the reader. This then sharpens into the violent metaphor of a “gash” that “seemed to open” in the pavement, recasting the floor as wounded flesh and foreshadowing a forcible entry.

Furthermore, synecdoche and juxtaposition make the intruders’ presence both intimate and uncanny. Only “a hand appeared,” withholding identity and thus heightening mystery. Its description as “a white, almost womanly hand” disarms us with softness, yet the kinaesthetic detail of “writhing fingers” injects serpentine menace. The tactile verb “felt about” suggests probing invasion, while the passive “was withdrawn” conceals agency, reinforcing clandestine intent.

Moreover, sentence forms and temporal adverbials modulate pace to sustain tension. The short, simple opener (“At first it was but a lurid spark”) contrasts with the longer, cumulative clause that follows, layering detail to delay revelation. Chronological markers—“Then,” “For a minute or more,” “Then”—and the adverbial “without any warning or sound” slow time and intensify silence, creating a false lull when “all was dark again,” before the ominous qualifier “momentary” undercuts it.

Additionally, auditory imagery clinches the arrival. The onomatopoeic, present-participial pairing “rending, tearing” conveys brutal force, while personification in “one of the broad, white stones turned over upon its side” makes the environment seem complicit. Even the precise noun “chink” implies a vulnerable gap. Together, these choices escalate from flicker to fracture to forced entry, compelling the reader to anticipate—and then witness—the intruders’ emergence.

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 identify that the writer builds suspense through a gradual reveal from 'lurid spark' to 'yellow line', the violent metaphor 'a gash seemed to open', and eerie sensory detail like 'a white, almost womanly hand' with 'writhing fingers'. It would also explain that the intruders’ arrival is signalled by contrast and sound—darkness returns 'as suddenly as it appeared' before the harsh 'rending, tearing sound' as the stone 'turned over'—with long, building sentences broken by abrupt clauses to jolt the reader.

The writer uses vivid adjectives and a metaphor to build suspense. The opening image shifts from "a lurid spark" to "a yellow line", a lexical field of light in darkness that makes the reader strain to see. The phrase "a gash seemed to open" is a disturbing metaphor that makes the floor feel like wounded flesh, suggesting something is forcing its way in. The adverbial clause "without any warning or sound" heightens tension by removing clues, so the arrival feels sudden and uncanny.

Moreover, the focus on the hand creates unease. The phrase "a white, almost womanly hand" uses contrast to unsettle, while dynamic verbs like "felt about" and the participle "writhing" make the fingers seem snake-like. This personification of the hand as a searching creature makes the reader anticipate the intruders’ emergence but withholds the full reveal.

Additionally, sentence forms and sound effects increase suspense. The repetition of "Then" controls the pacing, and the short sentence "Its disappearance, however, was but momentary" delivers a jolt. Finally, the auditory imagery in "a rending, tearing sound" suggests violence, and when "one of the broad, white stones turned over," the opening is exposed, clearly signalling the intruders’ arrival route.

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 descriptive words and imagery to build suspense, like lurid spark and yellow line, the suddenness of without any warning or sound, the metaphor a gash seemed to open, and the unsettling picture of a white, almost womanly hand with writhing fingers to make the arrival feel creepy. Structure and sound also add tension: the repeated Then and longer sentences slow the reveal, while the shift from all was dark again to the harsh rending, tearing sound as a stone turned over shows the intruders breaking in.

The writer uses descriptive colour adjectives to create suspense. The "lurid spark" becomes a "yellow line", so the light grows slowly. The repeated "then" shows a gradual build-up, making the reader wait, and "without any warning or sound" adds fear.

Moreover, the metaphor "a gash seemed to open" makes the ground feel like a wounded body. The "white, almost womanly hand" with "writhing fingers" is unsettling. The verbs "felt about" and "protruded" suggest someone searching, hinting the intruders are about to break in.

Additionally, sound imagery and sentence forms add tension. After "all was dark again," the short sentence "Its disappearance, however, was but momentary" creates a pause before action. The violent sound imagery "rending, tearing sound" and the stone that "turned over" show the intruders' arrival becoming real and forceful.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple comment; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer uses simple descriptive and sound words like "lurid spark", "a white, almost womanly hand" and "rending, tearing sound", with sudden phrases such as "without any warning or sound" and "suddenly", to create suspense and show the intruders arriving.

The writer uses descriptive adjectives like “lurid” and “yellow” to create a strange light, building suspense, and the phrase “without any warning or sound” adds tension. The noun phrase “a hand… a white, almost womanly hand” shows the intruder arriving and makes the reader uneasy. Furthermore, vivid verbs such as “lengthened,” “writhing” and “protruded” suggest creeping movement, so we expect something to happen. Moreover, the words “rending, tearing” make us hear the noise, which is dramatic. Additionally, the short simple sentence “Its disappearance, however, was but momentary.” increases tension before the stone “turned over.”

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Gradual escalation via sequencing builds anticipation as the light intensifies toward intrusion. lurid spark
• Suddenness and silence heighten unease, implying stealth and unpredictable arrival. without any warning or sound
• Violent, wound-like imagery suggests the floor is being violated, amplifying threat and shock. a gash seemed to open
• Uncanny, soft-sounding description of the intruder’s limb unsettles and complicates expectations. almost womanly hand
• Active, invasive movement hints at deliberate searching, increasing menace and purpose. writhing fingers
• Temporal drag prolongs tension, forcing the reader to wait with the scene. For a minute or more
• A false retreat resets the darkness to intensify dread before the next breach. all was dark again
• Residual sliver of light implies an entry point still prised open, keeping danger present. a chink between the stones
• Forewarning signals that the calm will break imminently, sustaining suspense. was but momentary
• Abrupt aural violence marks the decisive arrival and shifts from stealth to force. rending, tearing sound

Question 3 - Mark Scheme

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

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

You could write about:

• how climax builds 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 identify a carefully engineered crescendo: prolonged waiting and time dilation in pitch darkness and What a time it seemed!, reinforced by the echoing pitch of expectancy and hyper-attuned gentle breathing, give way to incremental visual revelation from lurid spark to yellow line to a gash seemed to open and a gaping hole. It would also analyse the shift in pace and tone as action and dialogue accelerate—Suddenly, Holmes had sprung, the pistol clinked—before the cool control of You have no chance at all and with the utmost coolness marks the release into denouement, making the climax decisive and complete.

One way in which the writer has structured the passage towards climax is by deliberate deceleration and withholding. Holmes “shot the slide… and left us in pitch darkness”, a blackout that suspends action while the “smell of hot metal” signals latent potential. The order to “be silent and wait” imposes stasis, and temporal distortion—“What a time it seemed!... but an hour and a quarter”—stretches time. Through claustrophobic first-person focalisation and a sensory zoom to breath, anticipation is ratcheted to a high “pitch of tension”.

In addition, the writer orchestrates a crescendo by incremental revelation followed by a burst of rapid action. The light is amplified stepwise—“lurid spark… yellow line… a gash”—and then a “hand… with its writhing fingers” protrudes: a patterned escalation that drip-feeds information. As soon as the stone turns and a “gaping hole” appears, pace accelerates: “Holmes had sprung… seized… The other dived… the light flashed… the pistol clinked”, a polysyndetic chain of dynamic verbs that simulates chaos. The exclamation “Great Scott! Jump, Archie, jump” spikes urgency, tipping the build-up into climax.

A further structural choice is the swift pivot from kinetic action to dialogue-led denouement, which seals the climax. The revelation “It’s no use, John Clay” names the antagonist, confirming Holmes’s control, while earlier foreshadowing (“stopped all the holes”; “three men waiting”) pays off. The tonal shift to ironic civility—“please, sir… your Highness”—deflates danger, so the light/dark motif resolves into exposure and orderly arrest.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Explains effects; relevant examples; clear terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 3 response would explain that the writer builds to a climax by sustaining tense, first-person waiting in "pitch darkness" and stretched time ("What a time it seemed!"), then using an incremental reveal as the light grows from "a lurid spark" to "a yellow line" to "a gash seemed to open", exposing the intruders. It would also identify the sharp shift in pace and tone—signalled by "Suddenly", Holmes "sprung out", the "pistol clinked"—and the calmer resolution with "handcuffs clattered", showing how these structural changes create and then release tension.

One way in which the writer structures the source to build to a climax is by establishing a prolonged, claustrophobic build-up. After Holmes shuts the lantern, we are left in “pitch darkness,” and the first-person perspective confines us behind the case. The temporal manipulation—“What a time it seemed! … but an hour and a quarter”—slows the pace, sustaining suspense and priming us for eruption.

In addition, tension escalates through incremental focus shifts and step-by-step sequencing. Temporal markers—“At first… Then… and then…”—move from “a lurid spark” to “a yellow line” to “a gash” and finally a “hand” and “gaping hole.” This zoom effect and gradual reveal quicken the pace as the thieves surface, driving the narrative to its turning point.

A further structural choice is the sudden change from build-up to explosive action and then to resolution. The turning point arrives when “Sherlock Holmes… sprung out,” followed by rapid actions (“light flashed,” “crop came down”). Immediately, the mode shifts to dialogue and the withheld identity is named—“John Clay”—so the contrast in mood and the move from description to controlled speech signal the climax and release the tension for the reader.

Level 2 (Some understanding and comment) – 3–4 marks Attempts to comment; some examples; some terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 2 response would say the climax builds from waiting in "pitch darkness" and slow time ("What a time it seemed!") to a step-by-step reveal: "At first" a "lurid spark", "Then" a "yellow line", and "a gash" with "Suddenly", which creates suspense. It then speeds up into action and dialogue when Holmes "sprung out" and says "You have no chance at all", showing the build-up leading to the arrest.

One way the writer structures a climax is by starting the extract in complete darkness and delay. The opening has 'pitch darkness' and 'we must be silent and wait', with time stretched ('What a time it seemed!'). This slow pace and waiting raise tension and expectation.

In addition, the pace quickens through a clear sequence: 'Suddenly', 'Then', and 'in another instant'. The focus shifts from the narrator’s tight senses to the floor, the 'lurid spark', the 'hand', and finally the faces. This step-by-step escalation leads us to the moment the thieves appear.

A further feature is the turning point and resolution. The climax comes when Holmes 'sprung out' and the pistol 'clinked', then dialogue finishes the scene. The mood shifts from fear to control and irony ('You have no chance'), giving a neat ending after the high point.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: At the end, there is tense waiting in "pitch darkness" and "we must be silent and wait". Then it suddenly changes with "Suddenly" and "With a rending, tearing sound", and it finishes with the arrest as the "handcuffs clattered".

One way the writer creates a climax is with a slow build-up. The darkness and waiting ("we must be silent and wait") make the pace slow. Time seems long, which adds tension.

In addition, the writer uses a sequence to speed up: "At first", "Then", "in another instant", "suddenly". This quicker pace and focus on small details (the hand, the stone, the hole) lead to the moment.

A further feature is the turning point with action and dialogue. "Holmes had sprung" is the climax, then the talk and arrest act as a resolution, changing the mood to calm.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Immediate blackout after the lantern is shuttered: withdrawing light primes suspense and concentrates attention for a peak — pitch darkness
• Strategic containment established in advance: sealing exits foreshadows an inevitable capture, heightening anticipation — stopped all the holes
• Time dilation in the stakeout: the wait feels endless, stretching tension before release — What a time it seemed!
• Claustrophobic sensory focus: hyper-attentive hearing magnifies the hush and readiness for action — gentle breathing
• Incremental visual reveal: spark to line to gash builds a step-by-step approach to intrusion — lurid spark
• Suspenseful feint: the probing hand lingers then withdraws, delaying payoff and intensifying threat — For a minute or more
• Sudden rupture into action: violent sound and motion mark the break from stillness — rending, tearing sound
• Staged emergence: the intruder rises in measured steps, creating a visual crescendo toward confrontation — shoulder-high and waist-high
• Pacy dialogue at the breach: whispers and exclamations spike urgency at the peak — Great Scott! Jump
• Decisive turning point and release: Holmes intervenes, disarms, then the scene settles into orderly arrest — sprung out and seized

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, where John Clay reacts calmly to being caught, it could be seen that he is not a typical dangerous criminal. The writer suggests that Clay sees the crime as an intellectual game against Holmes which he has simply lost.

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

In your response, you could:

• consider your impressions of the criminal John Clay
• comment on the methods the writer uses to portray his calm reaction to capture
• support your response with references to the text. [20 marks]

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

Evaluate texts critically and support with appropriate textual references.

Level 4 (Perceptive, detailed evaluation) – 16–20 marks Perceptive ideas; perceptive methods; critical detail on impact; judicious detail. Indicative Standard: A Level 4 response would argue that the writer, through poised dialogue and ironic detail, largely presents Clay as an untypical, cerebral adversary: his poise "with the utmost coolness," aristocratic hauteur in "royal blood... say 'sir' and 'please'," and chivalric "sweeping bow," plus the mutual accolades ("I must compliment you"/"Your red-headed idea was very new and effective") cast the crime as an intellectual duel with Holmes. Yet it would also register the residual menace of the "revolver" and his "I'll swing for it!" outburst, complicating the claim that it is merely a game.

I largely agree with the statement. Doyle crafts Clay as an atypical, even gentlemanly, criminal whose composure and language suggest a contest of wits rather than a brutal confrontation; however, the text also glances at his underlying capacity for danger. Structurally, the writer juxtaposes Watson’s hyper-alert tension with Clay’s poise: Watson’s “nerves were worked up to the highest pitch of tension,” but Clay replies to capture “with the utmost coolness,” a tonal shift that reframes the climax as intellectual rather than violent.

The emergence of the burglars is encoded with ominous imagery that initially aligns them with physical threat. The metaphor of a “gash” opening in the floor and the “rending, tearing sound” personify the bank as a wounded body, while the hand with its “writhing fingers” is almost serpentine. Yet this sinister semantic field is undercut by Clay’s appearance: a “white, almost womanly hand” and a “clean-cut, boyish face” feminise and infantilise him, subverting the stereotype of the brutish felon. The brief flash of danger remains—“the light flashed upon the barrel of a revolver”—and Clay’s urgent “Jump, Archie, jump, and I’ll swing for it!” acknowledges lethal stakes, but once disarmed, the narrative resolves away from violence.

Dialogue and register then foreground the “game” motif. Holmes addresses him “blandly,” and Clay matches the tone: “So I see,” he answers, “with the utmost coolness.” The reciprocal compliments—“I must compliment you” and Holmes’s “And I you”—echo the civility of opponents after a chess match. The lexis of strategy and completion (“You seem to have done the thing very completely”; “Your red-headed idea was very new and effective”) constructs the crime as a clever scheme, while conceding defeat with sportsmanlike grace. This carefully courteous exchange reframes criminality as intellectual play.

Finally, Clay’s aristocratic affectations intensify the sense that he is not a “typical dangerous criminal.” His imperious request—“Have the goodness… to say ‘sir’ and ‘please’”—and the claim of “royal blood” elevate his register; the adverb “serenely,” his “sweeping bow,” and that he “walked quietly off” all connote theatrical composure. Jones’s “stare and a snigger” and mock-deference (“would you please, sir… your Highness”) satirise Clay’s pretensions, deflating menace into irony.

Overall, I agree to a large extent. While Doyle signals Clay’s potential for harm through the revolver and the rending entry, the dominant effect is of a cultivated, cerebral adversary who treats capture as losing an elegant game to Holmes, and accepts the checkmate with urbane calm.

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, clearly explaining that Clay treats his capture like a game he concedes—shown through dialogue and adverbs such as "So I see", "I must compliment you", "serenely" and action details like his "sweeping bow" and how he "walked quietly off"—so he appears unlike a stereotypically dangerous criminal. However, it would also note hints of real threat, for example the "revolver", to keep the evaluation balanced.

I mostly agree with the statement. In this section, Conan Doyle presents John Clay as unusually calm and courteous at the moment of capture, so he reads less like a violent thug and more like a clever opponent who recognises defeat.

Structurally, the writer builds high suspense through the narrator’s sensory detail—“lurid spark,” “rending, tearing”—and the unsettling image of a “white, almost womanly hand” with “writhing fingers.” This imagery suggests danger and secrecy; yet the description “clean-cut, boyish face” immediately undercuts the expectation of a brutal criminal. That juxtaposition prepares us for Clay’s composure when Holmes seizes him.

The dialogue then makes the “intellectual game” idea clear. Clay answers “with the utmost coolness,” a deliberate adverbial phrase foregrounding his composure. His polite exchange—“I must compliment you”—met by Holmes’s “And I you”—creates a balanced, almost sporting tone, as if two chess-players are acknowledging each other’s skill. The reference to the “red-headed idea” as “very new and effective” further frames the crime as a contest of ingenuity rather than brute force. Clay’s imperatives—“I beg that you will not touch me” and his demand to be addressed with “sir” and “please”—draw on a semantic field of gentility and status (“royal blood”), which adds irony and a comic tone when set against handcuffs “clatter[ing]” on his wrists. His “sweeping bow” and the adverb “serenely” complete this gentleman-thief persona.

However, Conan Doyle also reminds us Clay is dangerous: “the barrel of a revolver” flashes before Holmes disables him with a “hunting crop.” The sound imagery of “rending cloth” and the cry “I’ll swing for it!” signal real stakes and potential violence. So while Clay behaves with poise, he is not harmless.

Overall, I agree to a large extent: the writer’s contrast, controlled dialogue, and courteous lexical choices present Clay as an urbane, intellectual adversary who treats capture like losing a game—though the presence of the gun shows he remains a serious criminal.

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, noting that the writer uses dialogue and description to show Clay’s calm, game-like attitude — "with the utmost coolness", "I must compliment you", and a "sweeping bow" — so it feels like a game he has lost rather than a violent crime. However, the "barrel of a revolver" and his partner’s escape attempt also suggest he still poses danger.

I mostly agree with the statement. Clay does react calmly when he is caught, and the writer makes him seem more like a clever opponent than a violent criminal, although there are hints that he can be dangerous.

First, the writer builds tension with violent-sounding verbs like “rending, tearing,” so when Clay appears his calmness stands out. The description “a clean-cut, boyish face” uses the adjective “boyish” to make him seem neat and not threatening. When Holmes says, “You have no chance at all,” Clay replies “with the utmost coolness,” which shows his controlled reaction. The polite dialogue, “I must compliment you” and Holmes’s reply “And I you,” creates the impression of an intellectual contest. This exchange feels like a game of wits that Clay accepts he has lost. Later, Clay’s formal register—“I beg that you will not touch me,” and his claim to have “royal blood”—suggests pride and dignity rather than panic. The adverb “serenely,” plus his “sweeping bow” and the way he “walked quietly off,” underline his composure, as if he is conceding defeat respectfully.

However, the moment when “the light flashed upon the barrel of a revolver” shows he did carry a weapon, which hints at real danger. His exclamation “I’ll swing for it!” also suggests he knows the serious, even deadly, risk.

Overall, I agree to a large extent. The writer presents Clay as a cool, gentlemanly criminal who treats the crime like a mental game against Holmes, though the revolver reminds us he is still potentially dangerous.

Level 1 (Simple, limited) – 1–5 marks Simple ideas; limited methods; simple evaluation; simple references. Indicative Standard: I agree to a large extent because Clay is shown as calm rather than a typical dangerous criminal, with phrases like the utmost coolness and serenely. He even says "I must compliment you" and makes "a sweeping bow", which makes it seem like a game he has lost.

I mostly agree with the statement. John Clay is shown as calm and not like a typical violent criminal, and he treats it like a contest he has lost. The phrase “with the utmost coolness” makes this clear. He is also described as “serenely” accepting arrest.

The writer uses description and dialogue to create this impression. Clay first appears with a “clean-cut, boyish face.” These gentle adjectives do not sound dangerous. In the short dialogue with Holmes, he says, “I must compliment you,” and Holmes answers, “And I you.” This polite tone feels like a game, not a fight. The mention of the “red-headed idea” shows planning. When Clay says, “Have the goodness… to say ‘sir’ and ‘please’” and talks of “royal blood,” he sounds proud. Finally, he “made a sweeping bow” and “walked quietly off,” which shows calm behaviour.

However, there are hints of danger, like “the barrel of a revolver” and the line “I’ll swing for it!” So he is still a criminal. Overall, I agree to a large extent that the writer shows Clay as calm and playing a clever game which he has lost.

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:

• Calm, measured dialogue presents Clay as accepting defeat rather than panicking, suggesting he is not a typical violent thug (the utmost coolness).
• Mutual compliments with Holmes frame the encounter as an intellectual duel or game, not a brutal arrest (I must compliment you).
• Class-conscious self-presentation and demands for courtesy build a gentleman-criminal persona, softening perceptions of danger (royal blood).
• Controlled, courteous body language implies dignified acceptance of loss rather than resistance (sweeping bow).
• However, the fact he is armed introduces clear risk and reminds us he remains potentially dangerous (barrel of a revolver).
• The initial exclamation shows a flash of alarm, hinting at genuine stakes beneath the polished exterior (Great Scott!).
• Soft, youthful description subverts the stereotype of a hardened crook, moderating our fear of him (boyish face).
• His immediate concession to Holmes reads like a cool acknowledgment of checkmate in a game (So I see).
• Admiring Holmes’s thorough plan indicates he values method and sees the crime as a contest of wits (very completely).

Question 5 - Mark Scheme

At lunchtime, the school canteen unveils new dishes and you decide to capture the bustle in writing.

Choose one of the options below for your entry.

• Option A: Describe a school canteen at lunchtime from your imagination. You may choose to use the picture provided for ideas:

• Option B: Write the opening of a story about a split-second decision.

(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 midday sun slants through the high panes, laying rectangles of diluted gold across tables scuffed by generations of elbows. The canteen breathes—an industrial lung—huffing steam from vents and exhaling the warm bouquet of gravy, vinegar and something indefinably sweet. Fluorescent strips buzz with proprietary authority; below them, trays skitter along the metal rail, a patient queue nudging, inching, gathering courage. Knives tick-tick against plates; chairs scrape, shriek, surrender. It is unglamorous, unvarnished, and yet it glows: a humming heart in the centre of a sprawling body.

Meanwhile, the tide arrives: blazers sagging at the shoulders; ties loosened into ribbons; badges catching light like fish-scales. A boy vaults a bag to save a seat. Snatches of languages spool together—Urdu, Polish, the elastic slang of Year Ten—until the room is a weave of voices, frayed in places, tight in others. Lower down, Year Sevens perch on the edges of their chairs, hands hovering over trays; above them, a prefect moves with brisk, law-making precision.

Beyond the hatch, a choreography unfolds. Ladles descend; tongs lift; domes of steam bloom and vanish. Chips release their salt-sour sigh; pizza presents a red sheen; the custard in its steel trough looks like an untroubled pond until a spoon commas it open. Apples sit in a pyramid of improbable polish; beside them, a tray of baked beans has slopped into rust-orange constellations that creep toward the edge. The smell is a thesis: buttery, metallic, tomato-bright; it hangs on hair, stitches itself into sleeves.

The women behind the counter—hairnets like haloed moons—exchange glances that say faster without sound. The till chirrups; a barcode beeps with officious cheerfulness; someone calls, 'Next, love,' in a voice that is both brisk and soft. By contrast, a man at the far sink wields a hose with monkish concentration, sluicing plates that keep arriving, relentless. It is a small act of persistence in a room that rewards stamina.

Elsewhere, small dramas bloom and wilt. A bottle of orange fizz tips; the spill races along the table’s grain, is dammed by a napkin, then breaks through—cheers, a groan, a complicit mop. Two friends share a sandwich; another negotiates a debt in slices of pizza. Nevertheless, on the fringe, a solitary boy aligns his cutlery, eats with deliberate care, watches the door. He is not unhappy; he is waiting. The clock above the servery metronomes the minutes (if that isn't a verb, it should be), and the room leans into the rhythm.

At last, a bell shivers through the air: sharp, unceremonious, irresistible. Chair-legs squeal backward; the room exhales; corridors tug bodies away in hurried streams. In the sudden uncluttered quiet, crumbs glint, cartons tilt, a stray glove waits. Even so, the canteen keeps breathing.

Option B:

Morning. The city unfastened its blinds and blinked; rain needled the air and laid a slick skin over the road. Traffic lights changed with mercurial patience, trading red to amber as if weighing their own advice. Steam curled from manholes; pigeons took their first, sulky flights. The crosswalk, a white-stitched scar across the tarmac, glimmered; tyre tracks made a palimpsest of serpentine scribbles where buses had already grumbled through. Sirens stretched somewhere far away. I remember that the gutter babbled like a small, excited child. I remember how my breath ghosted a moment before vanishing—how the whole street seemed to hold itself taut, like a coin spun on its edge, undecided which face to land on.

I stood on the kerb with my hood up and a manila envelope softening in the damp—interview time, 9.30, ink bleeding at the edges. If I missed it, if I arrived soaked and late and flustered, the trajectory of my week (my month, my future) would tilt. My shoes, cheap leather, squelched when I shifted my weight; my headache was incipient and unignorable. A bus splashed past and sprayed the shins of a man in a navy suit; he yelped and stared at his flayed reflection in a puddle. Meanwhile, a woman to my left wrestled with a pram whose hood snapped in the wind. A child beside her—not more than four—clutched a crimson balloon, its string bite-marked and tenacious in his small fist. All of it ordinary. All of it perfectly, comfortably normal.

And then the street inhaled sharply. The balloon wrenched free and rose with giddy arrogance; the boy lunged after it. His mother’s hand slid from the pram handle, wavering, and one wheel skipped off the kerb. A lorry, nose slick with rain, turned the corner with the low, answering growl of something heavy that believes it cannot be stopped. The crosswalk flared white. The driver’s eyes were suddenly two coins in the cab’s shadow; his brakes shrieked, sibilant, hopeful. The pram juddered and slued; the boy’s trainer found only water. In the half-second in which all this occurred—ridiculously, immeasurably long and short at once—I saw more than I could bear: a splash of blue jacket, a stray glove, my envelope unfurling like a soaked petal as it hit the road.

Two choices: freeze or move. Shout and watch the shout dissolve in the weather, or step and let the body do the thing the mind can’t explain. What could one second possibly weigh? Everything. The thought was lucid, crystalline; it banged once, like a door in wind, and then there wasn’t time for thought at all.

I dropped the envelope. My knees unlocked. The city narrowed to the white lines and the wet rubber smell and the sheer, brassy note of the horn. I felt the peculiar lightness that comes just before you jump—the moment your body is entirely undecided and therefore entirely free. I stepped off the kerb, shoulder angled, hands out; I moved toward the boy, toward the place where the future tilted, toward the fraction of time that would choose us or refuse us. And the rain, relentless, applauded.

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

Option A:

The double doors breathe out a warm fog of salt and sugar; steam bows from silver trays and nicks the low ceiling, blurring strip lights into their own halos. Noon, exactly, and the canteen ripples—trays rattling, chairs scraping, voices plaited into a coarse braid that tightens with every shout. The air is a quilt of smells: vinegar on chips, peppered gravy, that insistent thread of bleach that tickles the throat. Even the curled posters flick like small flags in an unseen draught.

The queue coils from the servery like a patient python; coins chime in pockets (a small storm of metal); the till blips; notices above the hatch have letters slipped and rearranged. Behind glass, hairnets flash and ladles rise and fall, dolloping sunset-yellow custard, scattering peas like bright marbles, crowning fries with glossy gravy. The menu uses ordinary words—pie, pasta—yet the choosing is intricate: what fills, what is fast, what can be eaten one-handed while talking? Elbows negotiate; friends duck in; a prefect’s eyebrow restores order for a moment.

Beyond the tills, tables are small countries. The footballers annex a corner and make noise that thuds like a ball against a wall; the drama crowd flick forks, their laughter pitched to carry; at the edges, quieter students build fortresses out of textbooks and tray liners. The swap has choreography: garlic bread for a brownie; two juices for the last wrap; ketchup smeared like a comet tail across white plates. Somewhere, a tinny song threads through the thunder.

Light slicks across the polished floor; then a spillage interrupts—orange drink blooming into a sticky lake, catching straws and one brave shoe. The caretaker arrives with a quick-shouldered sigh and a squeak of the mop; the lake shrinks to a gleam that will hold footprints until the bell. Under tables, the constellation of chewing gum is dull; above them, initials and arrows make a palimpsest of short-lived declarations. Condensation flowers on the doors; a drawn smile begins to drip.

Behind the counter, queens of steel and steam call out warnings and endearments, voices brisk and kind. A timer bleats; a tray is lifted; the last chips vanish with a cheer and a groan. For a heartbeat, the canteen is a single organism: spoons scraping, laughter flaring, a collective appetite overriding everything. Here, cliques matter and they don’t; hunger is democratic, even if where you sit is not. The bell splits the room; in a practiced wave the crowd empties, leaving heat hanging and chairs askew.

Option B:

Dusk. The hour when the city unclenches; shop signs do their glittering best against a sky the colour of wet slate, and the rain needles the windscreen in relentless, staccato lines. Traffic breathes in queues—red, red, red—then exhales in brief green sighs. My wipers scud back and forth like a metronome that has forgotten the tune.

I am alone for the first time in this car; the L-plates are curled like shed skins on the passenger seat. Mr Dean’s voice loops inside my head: Amber means stop if you can. Amber means anticipate. My hands, a little too rigid on the wheel, smell faintly of the lemon hand sanitiser my mum insists on—clean, clinical. Ahead, the junction glares. A cyclist hovers; behind, a van crowds my rear-view mirror (a thin, nervous rectangle of truth).

The light flicks to amber, almost imperceptibly. My right foot pauses—a fraction, a feather-weight—the kind of hesitation you can’t measure and yet is everything. Go or stop? The question is not philosophical; it is muscular. I could brake hard and risk the van kissing my bumper; I could glide through and hear Mr Dean’s cautionary cough. I had to decide: now, not in a minute, but in the split-second when the world contracts to a pedal and a pulse.

I press. Not hard; definite. The bonnet dips; the coffee cup in the holder tilts and shudders. In the mirror the van grows, its grille a chrome snarl, its wipers frantic. Tyres hiss. Somewhere, somebody leans on a horn, the sound long and accusing. My chest remembers to breathe.

And then, as if scrolled in time, the cyclist moves. He slices out into the crossing—hood up, headphones on, oblivious, vivid. A small mitten dangles from the back of his child seat, rain-beaded and ridiculous. He is through the amber and into the black mouth of the junction, exactly where my bonnet would have been. The bus bell chimes. I taste metal.

Green returns. The van behind is, miraculously, patient, or perhaps furious and contained. We trickle on. My palms bloom with sweat. Mr Dean’s voice edits itself: Good decision. Safe, not showy. I didn’t earn a medal. I didn’t save a life. I simply took my foot off one future and set it on another, because sometimes safety is not glamorous; it is an ordinary act performed at the right speed.

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

Option A:

The canteen exhales as the bell releases the corridors. Fluorescent lights hum overhead; trays answer with a quick, metallic rattle. Steam lifts in ghostly veils from the servery, carrying a stew of smells: vinegar, gravy, warm bread, and the faint, clean trace of morning bleach. Noise gathers fast, a swell of chatter that rises and breaks against the high ceiling; cutlery clinks; chairs scrape. It isn’t quiet, but it is routine, and the room seems to know what to do.

The queue forms with the inevitability of tide. It stretches, shuffles, folds around a pillar, each student balancing a tray like a small shield. At the counter, under heat-lamps that turn everything a buttery gold, chips glisten; beans blink slowly from their metal pans; a rectangle of jelly trembles as though uncertain. Two servers move with practised economy—ladles lifting, wrists flicking, smiles offered when there is time. A biometric scanner bleeps; names glow on a small screen and vanish. “Next, please,” someone calls, but the line is already inching forward, back and forth, back and forth, a gentle elastic.

By the tables, the tide spills and swirls. Year Sevens cluster, eyes wide at the mirage of choice; older students claim corners with easy ownership, bags slung like barricades. Laughter bursts and scatters; arguments simmer, then cool; secrets are traded in low, hot whispers that evaporate into the general haze. Ketchup sachets pop—little red commas across the laminated wood. A napkin dispenser coughs once, then jams. On one tabletop, initials are carved into the plastic, a history of bored hands and patient time. A fork falls, a quick, ringing note; for a second, heads turn as if a bell has been rung, then the noise recovers.

Near the windows, condensation makes a watercolour of the outside. A gull tilts its head on the sill, hopeful, arrogant. One student sits alone, earphones in, stirring soup that has gone from steam-soft to a skin. Meanwhile, the duty teacher patrols with a lanyard and a tired smile—reminding, tidying, repeating, “Keep the aisles clear, please.” A mop waits in the corner, resigned.

Now and then, the room pauses: a burst of coughing; a prefect’s announcement; the faint crackle of the tannoy. Then the rhythm resumes. When the clock edges past the half-hour, the chatter thins; trays are stacked; crumbs are brushed into simple, obedient piles. The canteen inhales what’s left—heat, noise, the last curl of vinegar—and settles, ready to begin again.

Option B:

Rain needled the evening as the crossing ticked its thin, electronic heartbeat. Headlights drew long, trembling stripes across the slick road, and the air smelt of petrol and damp wool. I stood with my bag strap cutting a red line into my shoulder, counting the blinks of the red man; waiting, not really thinking, letting the city carry me like a slow river. Somewhere a bus coughed; somewhere a siren stretched itself thin. I told myself it was just another Tuesday, just another corner, yet the moment seemed to thicken—as if the night had taken a breath and held it.

The child came from nowhere. One second the pavement was a jigsaw of shoes and umbrellas; the next, a small silhouette shot forward, a scarlet ribbon chasing the wind. A woman’s cry lifted and broke. The boy’s shoe hung half-off his heel. He didn’t look. He stepped from the kerb into the glare of a taxi’s headlights, the driver already turning, already impatient. The rain amplified everything, each sound louder than it had any right to be. I steadied my breath; the signal stayed stubbornly red.

Later, I would pretend there was logic, a list of pros and cons weighed and balanced. In reality there was only this: three counts in the metronome of my chest—breathe, decide, move.

I moved.

The bag slid down my arm and hit my ankle. Cold water leapt up my shins as I lunged from the pavement. My hand found the back of his jumper—it was bobbled and damp; it slipped. A horn ripped the air. The taxi’s grill opened like a metallic mouth, swallowing distance. Someone’s fingers grabbed my sleeve and then let go. For a tiny, stupid fraction I hesitated—my phone was in the front pocket, the earphones tangled like seaweed; I thought about the smash of it on wet stone, which is ridiculous when you think about it now.

Then the boy’s weight crashed into my arm and we spun in a crooked arc, two skaters losing rhythm. We fell. The kerbstone barked my knee; a hot sting rose and the taste of iron touched my tongue. The taxi tore past, wind clawing at my coat, and a wave of sound followed it—a chorus of breath, a half-swallowed cheer, the woman’s sob.

For a moment, everything paused again. The crossing ticked. The red man blinked, stubborn as ever. And under the hiss of the rain, I realised that sometimes the world waits for you—and sometimes, you have to step first.

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

Option A:

The double doors breathe out a warm gust as they swing; heat and noise roll across the corridor like a quick tide. Under the fluorescent bars the hall looks polished and pale, a stainless-steel mouth waiting to swallow us. Bodies surge and pause; the queue snakes, bends, then straightens again. Trays are stacked in a restless clatter, hands reach for them, sleeves brush. I catch the familiar smells: salt and vinegar, sweet tomato sauce, and something clean and sharp, the antiseptic spritz the staff use between rushes.

Sound stitches everything together. Voices overlap in threads—laughs, whispers, loud calls across tables. The clink of cutlery; the slap of a ladle on mashed potato; the cash till bleeps. A chair scrapes hard against the floor, squealing; a teacher says, “Mind the line.” Then the wave drops back, rising and falling, rising and falling, as if the canteen itself is breathing.

Beyond the counter, trays parade like a small city: golden chips glistening, a tray of curry under a trembling lid, pale bread rolls dusted with flour. Steam curls into the bright lights and turns to a dim mist. The menu board lists today’s choices in smudged chalk; posters for clubs curl at the edges, held by tired blue tack. Tables are wiped in quick circles, but the surfaces stay a little tacky, patterned with rings of juice and a constellation of salt.

My place in it is simple. The queue inches forward; my tray grows heavy; the coin warms in my fist. At last I reach the counter—steam fogs my glasses—and I choose too quickly. Sitting down, the bench steadies and the noise softens into one manageable hum.

Option B:

The lights at the crossing blinked their fluorescent rhythm, beeping like a small, nervous heartbeat. Rain threaded down, fine as silver wire, and the road held a blurry mirror of tail-lights and faces. People crowded my shoulders, umbrellas jostling; the city muttered, hissed, sighed. I curled my fingers around my coffee, feeling the cheap cup soften with heat, and watched the red bus swing out from the corner. One second to cross.

Then I saw the child — a flash of yellow hood, a mitten like a floating leaf — step off the kerb. His mother’s hand was empty; she didn’t see. The bus engine growled, louder, and the crossing still sang its mechanical lullaby. Time slowed, stretching thin as toffee. My foot hovered over the white paint, my breath hooked in my throat. How long can a second actually last?

I didn’t decide with words; I decided with bones. The coffee dropped, brown comet scattering across my shoes. I pushed forward, my trainers skidding on the wet stripes, and the smell of petrol jumped into my mouth. The boy’s eyes were huge, blue coins. My hand caught his sleeve; his tiny weight tugged me sideways. The bus’s brakes screamed — a metallic animal — and wind slapped our coats. Someone shouted my name.

We fell back onto the pavement in a clumsy knot. Hot breath, cold rain, the taste of fear. The mother reached us, sobbing thank you, thank you, while the driver leaned out, white-faced. I nodded, dizzy, and looked at the smashed cup bleeding coffee into the gutter. It felt ridiculous and serious at the same time — like a joke that wasn’t funny.

I didn’t plan to be brave. I wasn’t, really. It was only a split second: just one — and I moved before the second could make up its mind.

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

Option A:

The canteen swells with sound at midday, a kind of restless sea trapped under strip lights. Steam lifts from metal trays and curls, carrying the mixed smell of gravy, chips and something sweet that might be jam sponge. Chairs scrape, feet scuff, doors breathe in and out with a bang.

At the counter, a slow river of students shuffles forward; trays click, coins rattle, a ladle slaps the same glossy beans again and again. Pizza sits in triangles like folded flags, the cheese stretching in pale threads. Mash looks soft, almost cloud-like but with dents where a spoon has gone too deep.

On the tables, conversations jump and overlap. Year 7s clutch their meals, eyes big, trying to find a chair that is safe. Older ones sprawl, bags dumped under seats, voices loud on purpose. A dinner lady in a blue apron moves like a calm boat, collecting spills; her voice is gentle but it cuts through: Keep moving, please.

I notice small things. A plastic fork snapped into two thin bones. A boy staring past his own sandwich, thinking, maybe, about a test or the field outside. Ketchup maps on a napkin, a red country that will soon be thrown away. The clock’s hands creep; nobody watches them, but they go anyway—tick, tick.

When the bell goes, the room shifts. Chairs scrape faster, the river reverses, the sea drains out through the double doors. What’s left is the smell, warm and stubborn, and a few crumbs that glitter under the hard lights.

Option B:

Morning. The station breathed out steam and chatter. A thin drizzle stitched the air. People drifted, faces tilted at screens, headphones leaking tinny thunder. Time felt ordinary, plodding with the announcements.

I was thinking about nothing important—the price of coffee—when the rails began to sing. A child in a bright yellow coat bounced near the edge, a toy bunny by one ear. His mum smirked at her phone. Then the bunny slipped.

It dropped like a grey bird and hit the track. The boy twitched forward. Lights swelled in the tunnel; the hum became a roar. Everything was louder: rain, shoes, my heart. I didn't think; I moved. My hand slammed at the red lever by the pillar I had never noticed.

The alarm split the station—a jagged scream. People froze. Brakes bit the air, rough and metallic, and a hot gust pushed my face as the train staggered towards us. For a moment the whole place held its breath.

Someone shouted, "You can't do that!" Another voice: "He had to." My palm stung; my knees shook. I stared at that ridiculous rabbit. In that split second I chose, and maybe the consequences would arrive later, but the boy was already in his mother's arms, and time started again.

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

Option A:

At lunchtime the canteen opens like a mouth and the school pours in. Hot. Busy. Loud. Fluorescent lights shine on stainless counters, steam fogs the high windows, making little rivers on the glass. The smell of chips, pizza, gravy and something sweet wraps around us. Chatter and clatter, a rhythm beating the tables. Trays scrape; chairs scrape. Posters shout from the walls, the lights buzz too bright.

Meanwhile, the queue curls like a slow snake past the till. Dinner ladies hold heavy ladles, sliding gravy over soft mash; the smell—hot gravy and ketchup—hangs in the air. A packet pops, a laugh bursts. “Hurry up!” someone calls. Friends squeeze onto one bench, elbows bump and chips are traded, stories spill. The floor is sticky so shoes peel off it, a red tray wobbles like a flag. Where do you sit?

At the back, near the recycling bins, it is slower. A girl reads quietly; a boy eats alone and watches the door. A caretaker pushes a trolley—the wheels squeak. Then the bell trembles. Time stutters... then moves. Bodies rise like a tide going out; the room empties, but an echo stays. It is messy and warm, a bit chaotic, and it is ours.

Option B:

Rush hour. The city breathed in and out like a tired animal. Tyres hissed and a siren cried somewhere behind the flats. The crossing man glowed red; he looked strict.

I held a paper cup with tea that trembled. Then a streak of yellow—someone’s scarf—slid off a pram and danced onto the road, and the boy in the buggy wriggled free. He was small, maybe three. He stepped, one shoe on the white paint.

The bus turned the corner.

Everything slowed down and sped up at the same time. The driver blinked, I blinked, the mother screamed. The bus was closer, I could taste the metal and hear the engine eat the space. My chest thudded like a drum.

I didn’t think; I moved. My legs kicked forward, clumsy but fast, like a deer on a wet floor. My tea flew, brown rain. I grabbed the boy’s sleeve—thin, soft—and pulled. It was a split-second decision, a tiny click inside my head.

We fell backwards onto the pavement. Hot tea burned my hand and the cup rolled and rolled, as the bus screeched and stopped. People shouted. After, I realised I was shaking, but in that moment I was just air.

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

Option A:

The canteen is loud and bussling. Trays clatter and the line snakes along, back and forth, back and forth. Its like a hive and everyone is a bee with a bag. The smell of chips and pizza is strong, it stick to your jumper and hair. Lights glare and the tables look pale. Chairs scrape and squeel.

A whistle blows somewhere. Nobody listen. A boy drops his fork and it bounce, someone laughs, someone tutts.

The dinner lady with blue gloves trys to smile. She lifts a spoon and gravy falls in a thick brown river. Steam comes up like small ghosts. The tray shakes and my coins slide, slide. It smells like beans and ketchup and something sweet. The floor is sticky and shiny at the same time, my shoes make a rip sound. The clock is loud, tick tock! Then the bell rings and the crowd moves all at once.

Option B:

The light was red and the rain was thin like strings. I was stood at the crossing with my bag and my phone buzzing in my pocket. Mum said dont be late. Cars hissed, the bus grumbled. I looked left, I looked right, I looked left again. My heart was loud like a drum. It felt like the world was holding its breath too

Then the little boy dropped his ball and it rolled out.

He ran a step, his shoe on the road, I seen the bus lights. Do I shout or grab. There was no time - a split second. I didnt think I just moved and my hand took his sleeve. The bus was close, I could feel it. I should of stayed back but I didn't. Everything went fast and slow at the same time. Then it all stopped.

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

Option A:

The canteen is loud and hot. It is full of kids and seats. Trays clatter and forks hit plates, bang bang. The smell of chips is in the air and it sticks to you. I stand in a long line and it move slow, the lunch lady shouts and smiles a bit. Light comes from big windows on the shiny floor. There is chatter, there is laughter, someone dropped a drink and it runs away. My shoe lace comes undone and I stare at it. I think about football after. The bell will ring soon and I aint full.

Option B:

The road is wet and the bus is coming fast. I stand on the kerb. My phone buzzes in my hand. Mum. My shoelace is loose. I think about Grandad's watch in my pocket, he said be brave, he said be safe, both things. The light is red for me, I look left, I look right. I don't have time, not really, the driver sees me or he don't? My heart is loud like a drum. One step or wait. One second, a click in my head like a door. I move. Or I freeze. I choose now.