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 Approximately how old is the man?: About thirty-five years old – 1 mark
• 1.2 According to the narrator, what expression is seen in the eyes of the man being hanged?: A kind expression – 1 mark
• 1.3 Which statement describes the man's facial hair?: The man wore a moustache and a pointed beard – 1 mark
• 1.4 What is said about the man's eyes?: The man's eyes were large and dark grey and had a kindly expression – 1 mark

Question 2 - Mark Scheme

Look in detail at this extract, from lines 31 to 40 of the source:

31 his judgement as simple and effective. His face had not been covered nor his eyes bandaged. He looked a moment at his “unsteadfast footing,” then let his gaze wander to the swirling water of the stream racing madly beneath his feet. A piece of dancing driftwood caught his attention and his eyes followed it down the current. How slowly it appeared to move! What a sluggish stream!

36 He closed his eyes in order to fix his last thoughts upon his wife and children. The water, touched to gold by the early sun, the brooding mists under the banks at some distance down the stream, the fort, the soldiers, the piece of drift—all had distracted him. And now he became conscious of a new

How does the writer use language here to show the man's shifting sense of movement and time? 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 trace how dynamic verbs and personification—swirling, racing madly, dancing driftwood—are undercut by exclamative paradox, How slowly it appeared to move! What a sluggish stream!, so that sibilance in sluggish stream and the unstable epithet unsteadfast footing audibly slow the prose, mirroring precariousness and subjective time dilation. It would also analyse sentence form and focalisation: the cumulative listing and dash in The water, touched to gold... the fort, the soldiers, the piece of drift— show his attention dispersing before the deictic pivot And now reasserts the present, signalling a shift from external motion to suspended, inward time.

The writer juxtaposes kinetic lexis with exclamatives to dramatise the man’s distorted sense of pace and duration. Initially, the stream is rendered through dynamic verbs and an adverbial intensifier—“swirling,” “racing madly”—which suggest frantic velocity beneath his “unsteadfast footing.” Yet this is immediately undercut by the exclamatives, “How slowly it appeared to move! What a sluggish stream!” The clash between external speed and perceived slowness creates temporal dissonance, conveying time dilation as his awareness sharpens at the brink of death.

Moreover, personification and kinaesthetic imagery make movement feel both entrancing and estranged. The “dancing driftwood” implies lively, playful motion, while “he let his gaze wander” personifies his gaze as an autonomous agent, sliding free of control. This drifting attention—he “followed it down the current”—mirrors his mind’s own drift through time. The archaic, negatively prefixed adjective “unsteadfast” heightens precariousness, and the micro-temporal measure “He looked a moment” suggests his experience has fragmented into intensely felt instants.

Furthermore, the cumulative, asyndetic listing—“The water, touched to gold by the early sun, the brooding mists… the fort, the soldiers, the piece of drift—all had distracted him”—slows the sentence rhythm, mirroring suspended time. Metaphor and personification in “touched to gold” and “brooding mists” create a hushed, laden atmosphere, while “at some distance down the stream” stretches space as a correlative of stretched time. The dash pivots the syntax, snapping back to the present with “all had distracted him.”

Finally, sentence form intensifies suspension: “He closed his eyes… to fix his last thoughts” uses the verb “fix” to suggest an attempt to arrest time itself, and “And now he became conscious of a new—” employs deictic “now” and interruptive syntax (aposiopesis) to freeze the moment mid-flow, precisely charting his shifting sense of movement and time.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Shows clear understanding; explains effects; relevant detail; clear and accurate terminology. Indicative Standard: A typical Level 3 response would explain that contrasting imagery and verbs show his shifting perception: the 'swirling' water 'racing madly' and personified 'dancing driftwood' suggest speed, but exclamatives—'How slowly' and 'What a sluggish stream!'—suddenly make time feel stretched. It would also note how sensory detail and structure slow the moment—he 'closed his eyes' to 'fix' thoughts, calm images ('touched to gold', 'brooding mists') and the list ending with a dash ('—all had distracted him')—to convey distraction and dilated time.

The writer uses dynamic verbs and juxtaposition to show the man's shifting sense of movement and time. The present participles "swirling" and "racing madly" make the stream seem fast and continuous, but this is instantly set against the exclamatives "How slowly it appeared to move!" and "What a sluggish stream!" This contrast suggests his perception warps, as time stretches and contracts. The phrase "unsteadfast footing" signals instability, and "He looked a moment" foregrounds a fleeting unit of time.

Furthermore, personification and metaphor intensify this distortion. The "dancing driftwood" gives the current human-like grace, while "touched to gold by the early sun" freezes a single instant, as if time is paused. By contrast, the "brooding mists" make the scene feel heavy, slowing the mood.

Additionally, sentence forms and structure mirror his shifting focus. The brief exclamatives are isolated flashes of thought, while the asyndetic list—"the water, touched to gold... the brooding mists... the fort, the soldiers, the piece of drift—all had distracted him"—builds accumulation, making time feel longer. The sequencing "then" and "And now" marks abrupt temporal shifts, and "He closed his eyes... in order to fix his last thoughts" signals deliberate slowing and finality.

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 contrasts fast and slow movement to show shifting time: from his unsteadfast footing and the stream swirling and racing madly to the exclamations How slowly it appeared to move! What a sluggish stream! which make time feel stretched. Simple imagery like dancing driftwood, touched to gold, brooding mists, and the list the fort, the soldiers, the piece of drift show his attention drifting and that he is distracted.

The writer uses movement words to show change. Words like "unsteadfast footing", "swirling" and "racing madly" make the scene feel fast and unstable, but then the exclamations "How slowly it appeared to move!" and "What a sluggish stream!" show time suddenly slowing in his mind. This contrast shows his shifting sense of time. Moreover, the personification "dancing driftwood" makes the movement seem playful and draws his eyes along the current, then he loses that sense when he "closed his eyes". Furthermore, the metaphor "touched to gold" and the personified "brooding mists" create a calm, almost suspended moment, as if time is held. Additionally, the list with a dash, "the water... the soldiers, the piece of drift—all had distracted him," shows his focus jumping quickly, before he becomes "conscious of a new" feeling, marking another change in his sense of movement and time.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple comment; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer uses simple phrases like "racing madly", "dancing driftwood" and "unsteadfast footing" to show movement and instability. Then the short exclamations "How slowly" and "What a sluggish stream!" make time feel slow, showing a change from fast to slow.

The writer uses adjectives like “unsteadfast” and “swirling”, and the phrase “racing madly”, to show fast movement in the water. This makes time feel quick under his feet.

Furthermore, the personification “dancing driftwood” and the exclamations “How slowly...” and “What a sluggish stream!” show a change, because the movement now seems slow. The exclamation marks suggest his surprise.

Additionally, the imagery “touched to gold” and the long list “the water... the mists... the fort...” slow the sentence, so time feels stretched. Overall, these words show the man’s shifting sense of movement and time.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Lexical choice of instability signals precariousness, priming heightened attention to motion and time distortion (unsteadfast footing)
• Personification and dynamic verbs make the current feel hyper-kinetic, setting an external rush against inner perception (racing madly)
• Juxtaposed slowness contradicts earlier speed to convey subjective time drag as he watches the stream (What a sluggish stream!)
• Close visual tracking slows narrative time as his attention lingers on a single object (his eyes followed it)
• Temporal staging shifts from brevity to drift—brief glance to wandering gaze—showing a changing feel of duration (looked a moment)
• Exclamative sentence form amplifies astonishment, foregrounding a warped sense of pace and duration (How slowly it appeared)
• Sensory withdrawal from sight to thought pauses external motion, suspending time in inward focus (He closed his eyes)
• Luminous imagery renders a held, almost still frame, suggesting a slowed, contemplative moment (touched to gold)
• Accumulative listing of distractions fragments attention, dilating time before a summarizing snap back to focus (all had distracted him)
• Temporal deictic marks an immediate shift in consciousness, holding time on the cusp of a new perception (And now)

Question 3 - Mark Scheme

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

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

You could write about:

• how menace intensifies throughout 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 how menace is structured from a frozen, ceremonial tableau ('not a man moved', 'statues', 'Death is a dignitary', 'silence and fixity') into a procedural countdown ('at a signal... the plank would tilt'), while shifting into the condemned man’s perspective ('unsteadfast footing') and dilating time ('tolling of a death knell', 'intervals... grew progressively longer') to slow the pace and heighten dread. This intensification is sharpened by unsettling contrasts—momentary serenity ('touched to gold') and escape fantasy ('I might throw off the noose')—abruptly cut off by the clipped final action, 'The sergeant stepped aside.'

One way in which the writer structures menace is by opening with a frozen tableau. The external, panoramic perspective fixes everything in ceremonial stasis: “not a man moved… motionless”; even the sentinels “might have been statues.” The narratorial aside “Death is a dignitary” codifies this hush as ritual, making the outcome feel sanctioned and inescapable. By withholding the condemned man’s voice and keeping our focus on the “company” and the captain “with folded arms,” the scene accrues suffocating, formal dread.

In addition, the focus then zooms to a close-up that uses juxtaposition to intensify threat. The prisoner’s “kindly” expression and gentlemanly dress sit beside “one whose neck was in the hemp,” unsettling sympathy while foregrounding the noose. Procedural sequencing menaces through precision: the apparatus is itemised (“plank,” “cross-ties,” “signal”) and conditional phrasing (“would step aside… would tilt”) deliberately slows pace. This step-by-step choreography withholds the drop, functioning like a countdown whose inevitability tightens with each clause.

A further structural feature is the shift from objective reportage to interior focalisation, which dilates time. Sensory attention moves from sight to sound as the “metallic” beat grows into the “tolling of a death knell,” an iterative motif that stretches the “intervals of silence” until they become “maddening.” The delay heightens apprehension, then snaps in an abrupt volta back to action: after the imagined escape, the clipped final move—“the captain nodded… The sergeant stepped aside”—delivers a chilling, suspended climax at the brink of death.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Explains effects; relevant examples; clear terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 3 response would identify that the writer structures menace by opening with a static tableau—not a man moved, silence and fixity—then narrowing to the condemned’s situation, from unsteadfast footing to the method (the plank would tilt). It would also explain how the step-by-step sequence and slowing pace created by the sound motif (tolling of a death knell becoming the ticking of his watch) raise tension to a climax when the sergeant stepped aside.

One way the writer structures the opening to create menace is by foregrounding a static tableau. The wide focus — “not a man moved” and sentinels “might have been statues” — makes the ceremonial stillness ominous. An authorial comment, “Death is a dignitary…”, frames events as formal and inevitable. Then a zoom to the civilian’s “kindly” eyes against “the hemp” heightens threat by contrast.

In addition, the middle section is organised as step-by-step procedure, which slows the pace and intensifies menace. Actions are sequenced (“saluted”, “moved apart one pace”), and the mechanism is itemised: “same plank”, “cross-ties”, “at a signal”. This precise, methodical ordering makes the death feel mechanical and inescapable, so the reader anticipates the drop with growing dread.

A further structural feature is the shift in perspective into the condemned man’s consciousness, where sound controls pacing. The recurring “metallic” beat grows louder and the “intervals” lengthen, a temporal distortion that stretches the moment and turns a watch into a threat. Finally, a short, decisive sentence — “The sergeant stepped aside.” — delivers the menacing climax, cutting off his imagined escape and confirming the danger that has been built throughout.

Level 2 (Some understanding and comment) – 3–4 marks Attempts to comment; some examples; some terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 2 response would usually spot that menace builds through the overall structure: it opens with stillness—not a man moved, silence and fixity—then narrows to the condemned and a simple, step-by-step set-up (At a signal) that feels like a countdown. It might also note how the slowed sound—tolling of a death knell, ticking of his watch—adds tension before the final action The sergeant stepped aside.

One way the writer uses structure to create menace is the opening focus on stillness. The scene starts with the soldiers 'motionless', 'not a man moved', like 'statues'. This slow beginning sets a mood that feels threatening because death is near. The silence makes it menacing.

In addition, the writer changes focus from the whole bridge to the condemned man. We zoom in on his age and clothes, then the step-by-step procedure with the plank, captain, and sergeant. This clear sequence in the middle builds suspense, as we wait for the signal and know what is coming.

A further structural feature is the move into his thoughts and senses before the ending. The 'ticking of his watch' and the 'intervals' growing longer slow time, increasing dread. Finally, the ending speeds up with the captain’s nod and 'The sergeant stepped aside', a cliffhanger that leaves the menace at its peak.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: At the start the soldiers are 'motionless' and 'silent', which feels threatening; then it goes to the man’s 'unsteadfast footing' and ends with 'The sergeant stepped aside', so the menace builds.

One way in which the writer has structured the text to create menace is the still opening. Everyone is frozen, 'not a man moved', which feels threatening. The focus on the bridge and soldiers makes us expect harm.

In addition, the writer zooms in on the condemned man, giving simple details. This shift slows the moment and builds menace while we wait for the hanging.

A further feature is the step-by-step sequence and a short ending sentence. The plan is explained, the watch sound repeats, time slows, then 'The sergeant stepped aside.' The ending makes the menace stronger.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Static tableau opening freezes the scene, creating ritualised stillness before violence → menace in the immobility (not a man moved).
• Prolonged stillness is reinforced by dehumanised positioning → the scene feels inescapable and coldly controlled (might have been statues).
• Authorial reframing of the event as ceremony imposes inevitability → death made official and dignified heightens dread (Death is a dignitary).
• Structural zoom-in to the condemned’s human details contrasts fate with character → humanises him to sharpen impending doom (kindly expression).
• Procedural, step-by-step staging of the execution mechanism builds inevitability → reader anticipates the moment of release (the plank would tilt).
• Shift to his narrowed sensory focus slows time → suspended tension as attention fixes on minute motion (How slowly it appeared to move!).
• Recurring auditory beat paces the passage towards death → rhythmic dread underscored by funereal resonance (tolling of a death knell).
• Delayed reveal of the sound’s source twists perception inward → ordinary time becomes terrifyingly oppressive (ticking of his watch).
• Sudden move into direct, conditional thoughts accelerates pace with desperate possibility → last-second hope intensifies stakes (If I could free my hands).
• Abrupt, final short sentence delivers action while withholding outcome → cliffhanger that peaks menace at the edge of the drop (The sergeant stepped aside.).

Question 4 - Mark Scheme

For this question focus on the second part of the source, from line 21 to the end.

In this part of the source, the ticking of the man’s watch is described as if it is a loud, painful hammer sound. The writer suggests that the man’s fear is making time itself seem to slow down before his death.

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

In your response, you could:

• consider your impressions of the condemned man's perception of his watch ticking
• comment on the methods the writer uses to convey the man's intense psychological fear
• support your response with references to the text. [20 marks]

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

Evaluate texts critically and support with appropriate textual references.

Level 4 (Perceptive, detailed evaluation) – 16–20 marks Perceptive ideas; perceptive methods; critical detail on impact; judicious detail. Indicative Standard: A Level 4 response would largely agree, arguing that fear distorts time and amplifies sound: the watch becomes "a sharp, distinct, metallic percussion" like the stroke of a blacksmith’s hammer upon the anvil, moments stretch as slow as the tolling of a death knell, and structural paradox intensifies dread as "the intervals of silence grew progressively longer" even while ticks "increased in strength and sharpness" and felt "immeasurably distant or near by— it seemed both," finally "hurt his ear like the thrust of a knife." This shows sophisticated evaluation of the writer’s viewpoint that terror slows time before death, supported by precise textual analysis.

I largely agree with the statement: the writer amplifies the watch’s ticking into a violent, hammering assault, and uses this auditory distortion to embody how terror dilates time in the moments before death. Through intense sensory imagery, structural delay and tight internal focalisation, the ordinary mechanism becomes a “death knell,” making seconds feel excruciatingly prolonged.

From the outset of this section, the condemned man’s perception is already skewed by fear. Although the water is “racing madly,” the “dancing driftwood” seems to move “slowly,” in a “sluggish” stream. This paradox establishes subjective time: his “unsteadfast footing” and the ritualised, precise movements of the soldiers frame a scene of imminent, controlled violence, yet his mind makes the external world decelerate. The listing of visual details—“the water,” “the brooding mists,” “the fort,” “the soldiers,” “the piece of drift”—creates a dense field of distraction, suggesting a hyper-alert consciousness groping for focus as time stretches.

Into that strained stillness enters a “new disturbance”: “a sharp, distinct, metallic percussion like the stroke of a blacksmith’s hammer upon the anvil.” This simile, with its semantic field of metalwork, reconfigures the tick as industrial violence; the “ringing quality” gives it the sonority of a blow. The narrator’s third-person limited perspective tightens around his confusion—“immeasurably distant or near by—it seemed both”—and the parenthetical dashes mimic his disorientation. Crucially, tempo is explicitly slowed: its “recurrence was regular, but as slow as the tolling of a death knell.” That funerary image fuses sound and fate, converting time into an acoustic countdown to execution. The syntax enacts delay—“The intervals of silence grew progressively longer; the delays became maddening”—with the semicolon extending pause, while paradox (“With their greater infrequency the sounds increased in strength and sharpness”) captures how fewer ticks strike harder. Pain imagery intensifies the effect: the sound “hurt his ear like the thrust of a knife,” making the watch not merely loud but wounding. He “awaited each new stroke with impatience” and “apprehension,” signalling a mind torturing itself between blows.

The deflation—“What he heard was the ticking of his watch”—reveals that fear has magnified the banal into the brutal. Yet, in a nuanced counterpoint, his thoughts of escape “flashed into the doomed man’s brain,” suggesting mental speed within externally suspended time. The final structural snap—“The sergeant stepped aside”—cuts off the protracted interiority in an abrupt present-tense action. Overall, I strongly agree: the writer’s sound imagery and pacing transform the tick into a hammering death knell, and the man’s terror makes each moment distend agonisingly before the drop.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant evaluation) – 11–15 marks Clear ideas; clear methods; clear evaluation of impact; relevant references. Indicative Standard: A Level 3 response would mostly agree, explaining that the writer uses similes and auditory imagery to magnify the watch’s ticking into a violent, painful sound—“a sharp, distinct, metallic percussion like the stroke of a blacksmith’s hammer upon the anvil” that “hurt his ear like the thrust of a knife”—and to show fear stretching time with “as slow as the tolling of a death knell” and “the intervals of silence grew progressively longer.” It might also note that while perception is distorted (“How slowly it appeared to move!”), the man’s brief, rational escape plan slightly limits the extent of agreement.

I largely agree with the statement: the writer magnifies the watch’s ticking into a violent, hammer-like sound, and presents the condemned man’s fear as stretching time to a torturous crawl. Structurally, the focus shifts from the soldiers’ precise ritual to the man’s intensely subjective perception. Even before the watch intrudes, his attention to the driftwood—“How slowly it appeared to move! What a sluggish stream!”—uses exclamatives to signal heightened anxiety and the impression that everything decelerates.

The aural imagery then becomes oppressive. The sound is “a sharp, distinct, metallic percussion like the stroke of a blacksmith’s hammer upon the anvil,” a simile that recasts a tiny tick as a brutal, industrial blow. The recurrence is “as slow as the tolling of a death knell,” linking pace to impending death through funereal symbolism. The paradox “immeasurably distant or near by—it seemed both” conveys disorientation, while the lexical choices “impatience” and “apprehension” show fear driving his anticipation of each beat. Crucially, the writer manipulates time: “The intervals of silence grew progressively longer; the delays became maddening.” As the gaps stretch, the ticks “increased in strength and sharpness” and “hurt his ear like the thrust of a knife” — another violent simile that makes the ticking feel physically painful. This turns the watch into an instrument of psychological torture, intensifying the sense that fear amplifies and slows each moment.

Form and structure reinforce this. The short declarative, “What he heard was the ticking of his watch,” abruptly reframes the sound. Immediately, a rapid stream of interior thought—his escape plan—“flashed into the doomed man’s brain rather than evolved,” suggesting compressed cognition while narrative time is dilated. Outside, only a nod and a step occur, yet inside, a whole sequence unfolds. Overall, I agree to a great extent: through simile, aural imagery, paradox and interior focalisation, the writer makes fear warp time and transforms a watch’s tick into a loud, painful hammer before death.

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, pointing to simple comparisons that make the ticking seem painfully loud — like the stroke of a blacksmith’s hammer upon the anvil and like the thrust of a knife — and noticing that fear makes time feel slower in phrases such as as slow as the tolling of a death knell and intervals of silence grew progressively longer.

I mostly agree with the statement. In this part of the story, the watch is made to sound violent and painful, and the man’s fear slows his sense of time. First he notices his “unsteadfast footing” and watches the driftwood: “How slowly it appeared to move! What a sluggish stream!” This image shows his perception dragging because he is terrified and waiting to die.

When the watch appears, the description is like a loud hammer. The simile “a sharp, distinct, metallic percussion like the stroke of a blacksmith’s hammer” makes a small tick seem huge. It is also “as slow as the tolling of a death knell,” linking the sound to death. The noise “hurt his ear like the thrust of a knife” is another simile that makes it feel painful. The writer shows his disorientation with “immeasurably distant or near by—it seemed both.” The “intervals of silence” grow longer and the “delays” become “maddening,” slowing the pacing. Then the reveal, “What he heard was the ticking of his watch,” shows a tiny everyday sound turned monstrous by fear.

However, the structure also hints that real time has not slowed: “As these thoughts… flashed… the captain nodded… The sergeant stepped aside.” This contrast shows only his mind is stretching time while the execution proceeds. Overall, I agree to a large extent with the statement.

Level 1 (Simple, limited) – 1–5 marks Simple ideas; limited methods; simple evaluation; simple references. Indicative Standard: At Level 1, a candidate simply agrees that fear makes time drag, noting the watch sounds "like the stroke of a blacksmith’s hammer" that "hurt his ear like the thrust of a knife", and that time feels "as slow as the tolling of a death knell" with "the intervals of silence grew progressively longer".

I mostly agree with the statement. The writer makes the watch sound very loud and painful, and the man’s fear seems to slow everything down before he dies.

First, when he looks at the river, he thinks the driftwood moves “How slowly it appeared to move!” and calls the stream “sluggish.” This shows time feels stretched.

The watch is “a sharp, distinct, metallic percussion like the stroke of a blacksmith’s hammer.” It is “as slow as the tolling of a death knell,” which links the sound to death and makes each tick drag. The “intervals of silence grew progressively longer” and “the delays became maddening,” so his fear increases. The noise even “hurt his ear like the thrust of a knife,” another simile that shows pain. At the end, “The sergeant stepped aside,” showing death is near.

Overall, I agree to a large extent. The writer uses strong language and similes to show that fear turns the watch into a hammering, painful sound and makes time feel very slow.

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:

• Simile likening the tick to industrial blows intensifies its violent loudness and pain, amplifying dread: blacksmith’s hammer upon the anvil
• Funeral imagery makes time feel ceremonial and slowed, foreshadowing death’s inevitability: the tolling of a death knell
• Hyperbolic sensory pain shows fear turning a minor sound into agony, heightening psychological torment: thrust of a knife
• Pacing description stretches time into torture, aligning with panic-induced temporal distortion: intervals of silence grew progressively longer
• Spatial-temporal confusion conveys disorientation under stress, making sound feel unreal: it seemed both
• External motion perceived as slowed extends the time-drag beyond the tick to the world itself: How slowly it appeared
• Structural reveal reframes the menace as internal perception, proving fear magnifies the ordinary: ticking of his watch
• Anticipatory dread (impatience plus anxiety) makes each beat a torment, supporting slowed, oppressive time: awaited each new stroke
• Juxtaposition of racing thoughts with stalled time intensifies panic’s paradoxical effects on perception: flashed into the doomed man’s brain
• Contradictory motion (water “racing” yet driftwood sluggish) underscores warped time under imminent death: racing madly beneath his feet

Question 5 - Mark Scheme

A former industrial site in your area is being redeveloped, and a local group asks for creative writing about its past working life.

Choose one of the options below for your entry.

• Option A: Describe a disused engine room from your imagination. You may choose to use the picture provided for ideas:

• Option B: Write the opening of a story about friendship in a workplace.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Model Answers

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

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

Option A:

The engine room crouches below the factory like a retired giant, a cathedral of obsolete muscle. Late-afternoon light slants through a high grille, stratifying the air into gold and grit. Everything is furred with dust: dials, rails, the ribbed housings of motors that will not turn. The silence is not empty; it is packed with the memory of pressure and noise, with heat that used to breathe here.

Gauges stare back with cataracted glass; needles clap themselves to zero or hang uncertain at forgotten thresholds. Brass bezels wear tides of verdigris; enamelled labels announce their defunct jurisdictions: Boiler Pressure; Feedwater; Amperes. A thumbprint fossilised in oil clings at the edge of one dial, a relic of a last inspection—steady, precise, unnecessary. No hum, no flicker; only dust easing across glass.

Pipes loop and tangle overhead like ossified veins, swaddled in lagging that peels in tired spirals. Valves bloom like iron chrysanthemums; their handwheels are blistered, paint scabbed into scales. Chains that once tethered tools hang slack; a lamp caged in wire holds a filament the colour of old honey. Somewhere, a metallic drip measures time without moving it; the air tastes of iron, old oil, and perished rubber.

Underfoot, the grated floor is a dark palimpsest: oil, graphite, bootprints stitched into a metal lattice. A wrench lies where it fell—askew, accusatory—beside an open ledger stippled with thumbed smears. In the margin, neat as a prayer, a name repeats; beside it: a tick, a tick, a tick. The clock on the far wall, rim cracked, stopped at twelve minutes past three as if unwilling to witness redundancy.

Once, steam bullied through these conduits, shouldering valves aside; belts whipped; a governor chattered; men spoke in voices pitched to outrun the clamour. Once, a red mushroom of an emergency stop sat like a promise beneath a gloved palm. Once, the brass shone because it had to. Now the room is an archive of effort and ash—salted with silence—its warnings bleached, its toggles congealed mid-swing, its purpose folded away.

If a hand were to return to twist a wheel, coax a lever, prime a pump, would anything answer? In the mind’s ear, a murmur begins; in the room, nothing moves. The engine’s heart is not sleeping; it has given up its last. What remains is the impression of purpose like a chalk outline: precise, poignant, indelible. The room keeps its counsel, exhales dust, and remembers.

Option B:

The office exhaled before we did. At 8:43, the fluorescents hummed their obstinate hymn, the printer coughed into its tray, and the air—filtered, faux-citrus, precise—pretended to be clean. Desks squared their shoulders; screens woke in a glow of pale blue, spooling out emails like a tide coming in without asking permission. Somewhere, the kettle clicked; somewhere, a chair protested. Monday had set out its chessboard, and all its pieces were already moving.

Maya arrived with rain freckling her coat and two coffees balanced like offerings. Even her footsteps had composure—metronomic, unbothered—as if the corridor adjusted its pace to match her. She placed the mug by my right hand, where the coaster had become a small sunburst of rings, and slid a yellow sticky note beneath the rim: You’ve got this. (I didn’t. Not yet.) She had a way of smoothing days as if they were crumpled shirts; she would tug at a sleeve, press a seam, and suddenly the fabric lay obedient and flat.

“Pennington wants the figures by nine,” I murmured, eyes skimming numbers that kept multiplying like rabbits. “I think the spreadsheet is breeding.”

“That’s biology,” she said, smiling, already drawing a line of ink through the problem cells. “We’ll convert it back to maths.”

By nine, the room gathered into that first meeting—a circle of polite nods and sharpened pens. Pennington’s tie was a mathematically impossible shade of crimson; it demanded attention, and, not coincidentally, so did he. He flung out deadlines with the confident generosity of a man giving gifts that cost other people’s time. When he asked for an update, my throat staged a brief mutiny. I opened my mouth; my words faltered; the figures on the printed page blurred as if rain had snuck indoors.

Maya did not look at me. She looked at him. “We’ve collated the data for Q4 and reconciled the anomalies,” she said, her voice calm, almost conversational. She slid our graph across the table—ours, because she had fixed the axis that I, in my panic, had skewed—and let the picture do the heavy lifting. Pennington lowered his tie a fraction. He nodded. My breathing remembered itself.

By lunchtime, the rain had given up and dripped itself into the drains. We sat on the stone steps outside, where the building’s glass reflected a sky trying to be blue. She broke her sandwich neatly in half and handed me the better portion without making a point of it. We talked about anything but numbers: a plant she had coaxed back from the dead, a film I’d pretended to see. We were, to use the phrase, in the same boat—though our oars, perhaps, were mismatched. She rowed with rhythm; I splashed; somehow the shore kept creeping closer.

Back upstairs, the email arrived—subject line in capital letters, the digital equivalent of a shout. Re: URGENT: Revised Figures—Immediate. The tidal pull of dread was physical. Without being asked, she swivelled her chair in, shoulder to shoulder, our elbows making a small, defiant fence. “Divide and conquer,” she said, already drafting a formula, already translating panic into process. The room hummed; the printer stuttered; the afternoon stretched its careful grid across the carpet.

What is friendship in a workplace but this—small salvations, hourly, unadvertised? A quiet redistribution of weight; a steadying hand on the back of a chair; a coffee placed, wordlessly, in the right place at the right time. Before Pennington, before the metrics and the acronyms and the endless cascade of almost-identical days, there was this: two people, side by side, taking turns at the oars until the water gentled.

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

Option A:

Light slants through a ragged grille, laying pale ladders across the floor grating. In the shafts, dust hangs like slow snow; each mote turns, deliberate. The air has a taste—metallic, oily, faintly bitter—and it settles on the tongue like a story you almost remember. Nothing moves. Yet the room is not empty: a hollow chest, ribbed with pipes, that once breathed. I step in and the soft crunch underfoot is a palimpsest of paint and rust, a fine powder remembering heat.

Valves jut from the walls like knuckles, paint blistered and scales of green blooming where copper sweats. Rows of dials tilt toward me, their glass fogged, their needles held at attention—just off zero, just shy of red—as if a last instruction were flickering. Labels peel: Feedwater; Condensate Return; Boiler Two. A red mushroom of an emergency stop squats beneath a cage of wire. Cable looms sag like abandoned ropes.

There are prints of people, but not their bodies. A ring on a workbench stains the shape of a mug; chalk sums lean across a metal door; a calendar curls its corner back to a forgotten June. Who stood here and tapped the glass, careful rather than impatient? Once, the room learned to sing. It must have, because the walls hold it: a low, industrious music that threads itself through a shift and keeps the hours in order.

Now the music is reduced to a minimal score: drip, drip, a hesitant metronome from somewhere beyond the steel; the faint tick of cooling that never stops. A chain swings on a hook—almost imperceptible—yet it taps the bracket every few moments, knocking like a clock that mistrusts itself. Water has pooled beneath a ruptured joint, taking on the ceiling’s ochre freckles as constellations. Cobwebs stitch valve to valve. The smell is clean beneath the oil, like wet coins, like rain held inside a pipe.

I touch a wheel; it gives a fraction, then refuses. Time has tightened everything it can reach. Still, there is a courtesy here, a respect in the arrangement: pipes rising like organ ranks, ladders in strict geometry, the narrow catwalk. It feels almost ceremonial—a chapel for labour—though the congregation has gone home and the hymn books gather dust. The room waits, not patiently but stubbornly, as though it could be summoned. Perhaps it cannot. Perhaps the last engineer locked the door and left the hum inside. Time is the only engineer now.

Option B:

Monday. The time of meetings; of mugs with unintelligible slogans; of fluorescent honesty that flatters no one. Desks sat in obedient rows as the air-conditioning breathed. The printer coughed, and coffee fumes wandered the corridor like a rumour. In the corner, a spider plant drooped, yet stubbornly green; even in this bureaucratic brightness, something quiet insisted on living.

Maya paused at the threshold with a cardboard box too light to look serious: a pen pot, a framed photo of a beach she had never visited, a ceramic cactus. She kept her voice measured and her smile present; the nervous part of her chattered anyway, ticking in her chest like a cheap clock. Her desk—by a window that never opened—was an island, numbered and clean, daring her to make it hers.

'You made it,' said a voice that managed warmth without intruding. Jonah leaned on the partition with the kind of ease people develop after years here; his tie was loosened, his eyes bright in a way the strip-lights couldn’t bleach. He slid a coaster towards her as if it were a passport. 'That’s your first friend. Second is the kettle—third, maybe me.' He had a way of making the ordinary sound conspiratorial.

They began, cautiously at first, with the practical ballet of passwords and printers. Jonah narrated the rituals—how to placate the stapler; which spreadsheet hated commas; which silence meant approval. He sketched a map of the kitchen: milk at the back, biscuits in a tin that lies. Maya offered precision in return: she caught a typo that spared him a meeting, and he laughed, red-cheeked but not defensive. Gratitude is a small, bright coin; passed between desks, it shines more.

Lunchtimes diluted the formal colour of the place. By the window they shared salt crisps and small truths—sisters who phoned late, labelled jars of screws, the commute that made mornings feel borrowed. In work they became a tandem mechanism; in jokes, a refuge that didn’t need permission. The thread between them was tensile, a filament soldered inside the cold equipment of the day.

Then the memo arrived—subject: restructuring. Conversation thinned; the printer’s heat felt suddenly excessive. Maya’s stomach lifted, a tiny elevator between ribs. Jonah met her glance over the low wall. 'Coffee?' he mouthed, offering a shield. It was only a walk to the kettle, a brief detour, but under the glare of the system, such detours are how people endure. Steam rose; the room kept humming; their quiet alliance began to hold.

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

Option A:

The door gave a tired shudder as I pushed it open; stale air rolled out, sour with oil and salt. Light knifed through a narrow grate, laying a pale strip along the floor where dust hovered and turned. The cold sat heavy on the ironwork, and silence perched on the beams like a roosting bird, unwilling to move. It had the breathless pause of a stage before a show that would never start.

Rows of gauges lined the wall, their glass clouded, their needles stuck at impossible angles. Numbers ghosted under grime; labels curled like autumn leaves. Hairline cracks feathered some dials, spreading like frost. Filament bulbs hung in wire cages—each held a dead sun. Pipes arched overhead, the long spines of them lacquered with age; valves seized in a permanent grimace. The whole place was a ribcage stitched from copper and steel.

Underfoot the floor was a mosaic of old spills: tar-black blots, amber pools turned to skin. Rivets poked up like stubborn teeth. A rag lay collapsed in the corner; a wrench sat exactly where a hand must have dropped it. There were only three sounds: the slow metronome of a drip—drip, drip—the minor clink of a swaying chain, and my breath, held without meaning to.

Just beyond the catwalk, a massive cylinder slept, belted and bandaged, a heart silenced mid-beat. Warning placards muttered in faded red—Danger, Do Not Operate—and strips of yellow chevrons peeled away in tired curls. When I touched the rail, grit came off like salt; it bit my skin. The taste of dust was metallic; it sat on the tongue and refused to leave.

Once, I imagined, this room had been hot enough to sting; voices bouncing off plating, orders snapped, spanners chiming as the engine took its breath and roared. Now the quiet felt thick, almost polite, as if it were waiting for a cue that would never come. I listened, foolishly, for a switch to click itself alive. A moth lifted from a wheel, shy and brave. Somewhere, a valve exhaled a thin thread of air—just a last habit. I pulled the door; darkness gathered again, steady, unsurprised.

Option B:

Monday arrived like a sigh. The office woke piece by piece: the lift shuddered, fluorescent strips blinked themselves brave, the printer coughed out a test page nobody asked for. The air smelt of coffee and wet umbrellas; chairs squeaked as people slid into place. Along the window, the city wore a dull coat, rain brushing the glass in patient lines. IDs tapped the turnstile; passwords were retried; the kettle performed its tired aria. Between two desks, a low partition held paperclips, Post-its and the biscuit tin everyone pretended not to raid.

Maya and Leo arrived in the same week, two new names on the rota, scanning the open-plan ocean for a friendly island. On her first day, he slid over a spare highlighter—yellow, practical, kind. On his, she showed him the secret stairwell when the lift stalled. A friendship grew in the small spaces work leaves between tasks. It threaded itself through the daily: when the spreadsheet refused to sum, when the printer sulked, when a caller’s patience frayed. They traded biscuits and glances; they translated the manager’s buzzwords into something human.

At eight-fifty-nine, the ping came. New seating plan attached, effective immediately. The room took a breath it didn’t know it was holding. A murmur travelled the aisles, chairs half-turned, eyes flicking towards the board where names were reshuffled in stern, tidy lines. Maya’s smile thinned despite herself. Leo reached and tapped the edge of her mug—a small sound, a steadying drum. “We’ll be fine,” he said; as if the sentence were a bridge they could both step onto.

However, change here had a habit of arriving with a grin and a clipboard. Ms Hart from Projects would be down any moment; deadlines would land; new pairs would be made by someone who never once sat at their desks. Maya thought of afternoons made shorter by a shared joke, the way Leo always saved the last custard cream. What is a workplace without an ally? She folded the email, metaphorically at least, and exhaled. Friendship, here, wasn’t loud or dramatic—it was the quiet promise of a seat saved, a call covered, a name remembered in a room of noise.

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

Option A:

I step into the engine room, air tasting of iron and old rain. A thin blade of light slips from a barred window, catching dust like slow snow. The concrete floor is tacky with oil and grit; my shoes whisper as I move. It isn't silent, not really; the quiet sits heavy, almost claustrophobic, like a blanket no one has shaken for years.

Lines of gauges stare out, needles stranded between numbers. On one wall, a panel of switches sags, labels torn and curled into small yellow tongues. Pipes run shoulder to shoulder along the steel, bandaged with old tape; elbows bloom with rust. A valve wheel, once red, is the colour of dried blood; it refuses to turn and seems to sulk. The whole place looks paused: a machine mid-breath, waiting for orders that never came.

The smell is thick—diesel and dust, something salty from the damp that creeps through cracks. Somewhere, a tap drips at its own slow rate—drip, drip, drip—marking time better than any clock. Chains hang from a crane hook, barely moving, and cables loop from ceiling beams like sleeping snakes, making a faint chink when a draught sneaks in. No voices, no clatter, no thudding heart of an engine—only the tiny sounds you hear when you listen.

A calendar on a nail shows a month that has long gone; all the pictures have faded to the same tired grey. A spanner is fused to the bench by a lace of orange rust; beside it sits a dented mug with a brown ring. Who stood here last? Spiderwebs stitch across a pressure gauge like careful repairs on old skin. Condensation beads on the pipes—cold sweat on a cold body. It isn't dead; it is asleep, and it will probably keep sleeping.

Option B:

Monday. The time of new targets; screens blinking awake, fluorescent tubes humming their thin song. The office smelt of printer-warmth and damp wool; keyboards tapped a nervous rhythm and the coffee machine sighed like it was tired already. A fresh start for a few, perhaps, but to me it felt familiar—safe and slightly frayed.

As the photocopier cleared its throat and coughed paper, Maya set a mug by my mouse mat. 'Two sugars,' she said, with a half-smile. She knew my storms before I did: the tight shoulders, the bitten lip. I had been up late, recalculating the spreadsheet until the cells swam; when I lifted the mug my hand trembled like a receipt in a gust. Maya was my colleague and my friend—an anchor in the open-plan sea, a steady weight against the tide of emails.

We had met in the stationery cupboard on my first day, both hunting for pens that actually worked, and somehow we never stopped finding each other. She kept plasters in her drawer and I carried spare chargers; between us we were a small team inside the team. Our desks faced different directions, but glances crossed the aisle like magnets; a raised eyebrow was a question, a tiny nod an answer. Her voice was quiet, meticulous, and sometimes her laugh escaped unexpectedly, bright as orange peel.

At 9:03 the subject line arrived: URGENT — Client pitch moved to 1 p.m. The numbers in my spreadsheet blurred and reformed, not quite right. Footsteps approached; the boss's heels ticked like a metronome. My stomach shrank. Maya's hand found my shoulder and pressed, light, definite. What are friends for if not this small, steadying pressure? We breathed. Maybe it was just another Monday; still, it was the morning our friendship would be tested, and, I hoped, prove itself again.

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

Option A:

The engine room sits under a low ceiling of pipes and shadows. Dust floats in the torch-beam like slow snow. The dials keep their blank faces turned to nobody, glass filmed with a pale skin of grime. Its levers lean at unsure angles, their handles cold, their paint flaked into little moons on the floor. The air is thick with the stale smell of oil and wet metal, a faint tang that clings to the tongue. It should be silent, it isn’t.

At first there is only silence; then you notice the small sounds: a drip, another drip, the click of cooling somewhere deep. Cables hang like black vines, and the big cylinders sit like sleeping beasts, pinned by rust. Where light sneaks in through a broken grate it catches tiny threads, webs stretched bravely between gauges and bolts. The labels, yellowed and curling, murmur old instructions that no one will follow; the room shows it's age.

A wheel as wide as my chest is fixed in place. When I touch it, the metal feels gritty and stubborn—as if it remembers movement but refuses me. The floor is patched with oil stains that have made a dark map; roads that lead nowhere. I imagine the room alive: steam lifting, voices shouting over a steady thunder, lights winking, the great heart of the place beating again and again. Now it does not beat. No hum, no whirr, no rush of breath. Only the soft rattle of a loose screw and the far echo of water.

Option B:

Monday morning. The strip lights blinked awake; the printer coughed out paper. Chairs sighed as people dragged them in, and the computers hummed like bees. Our office was open-plan—more like a fish tank than a place to hide—desks set in neat rows. Each desk had the same: tired pens, a plant trying, a screen that showed too much.

Maya sat opposite me. Her mug had a crescent missing; her laugh rattled the blinds. On my first day, when my tie was crooked and my hands shook, she slid a yellow Post-it towards me: Breathe. You got this. It wasn't much, but it was enough. Since then we'd learnt the code of the place—the manager’s footsteps; the printer’s tantrums; the way the air-con sulked. We shared biscuits when payday felt far; we shared silence when the phone screamed.

At nine my inbox pinged: URGENT from Mr Crane. My stomach dipped like a lift; I clicked anyway. A client was threatening to leave; I had missed a number in last week’s report. The words swam. Maya didn’t tell me off or tell me jokes, she just shifted her chair so our elbows touched and whispered, Try this: apologise, and show the new figures. Together we checked everything, we straightened the story, we filled in the gap I’d left.

By lunchtime the panic had thinned like steam. Mr Crane replied with a word: noted. It didn’t feel like a medal, but it felt like breathing again in a room that measured days in pings and coffee spoons.

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

Option A:

At first, the engine room feels like it is holding its breath. Dust hangs in the air, catching on a thin beam of light from a hatch. Rows of dials line the wall; their needles stuck, their faces filmed with grime. Thick pipes snake across the ceiling like grey vines, some sweating a slow brown stain.

Now, I step inside and the floor answers with a hollow note. It smells of oil and old heat, a metallic tang that clings to your tongue. There is no roar, only drips—steady, patient, counting seconds. I imagine the turbines that used to turn, the pistons that pumped and pushed, forwards and forwards, until it stopped.

To the side, there are tools in a row, spanners, a wrench, a dented tin of grease with the lid welded shut by time. The paint blisters on the boiler; it peels off in curls like old skin. In the corner a warning sign leans, its letters faded but still trying to be serious.

This place is not dead, not really. It sleeps under rust and silence, waiting for a hand to turn the wheel, for a spark to bite again.

Option B:

Monday. The office hummed with air-con and keyboards, that steady buzz under your skin. My coffee cooled too fast, and the fluorescent lights felt a little too bright. We were busy; we were tired; we were all pretending to be fine. The printer flashed red again, like a tiny alarm I couldn’t ignore.

At first, I didn’t know his name. He was the new guy by the window, sleeves rolled, a careful smile. When the paper jammed, I tugged and it stuck like a stubborn door. He stepped over and said, 'Mind if I try?' His hands were steady; mine were not. A soft click, a whirr, and the printer sighed. We laughed — quietly. He passed me a tissue for the ink on my thumb.

After that, small things grew. He kept paracetamol in his drawer; I kept tea bags in my desk: we swapped. Every morning we met by the kettle and talked about tiny things — the bus, the weather, deadlines — and it made the room feel warmer. By Friday, I knew his name, Dan, and he knew mine. It wasn’t a big moment, not dramatic, but it was definately the start of something like friendship.

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

Option A:

The engine room is cold and still. Dust sits on everything like grey snow. Pipes curve along the walls like snakes that forgot to move. I can smell old oil and damp metal, it tastes bitter in the air. Every sound is loud, the drip drip drip, a click when a loose bolt twitches.

Bigger machines squat, they look tired. The dials have blind glass eyes. Numbers are faded and the hands are stuck at nothing. A chain hangs down and it swings, slow, and then not. I think the floor is sticky with rust and grease, it shines but dull at the same time, that makes no sense but it does here.

I put my hand on a wheel. It is rough, it bites my palm and leaves a brown mark. I want to turn it but I dont. The air feels heavier, like the room is holding it breath... like it is waiting.

Option B:

Monday morning. The office was bright and cold, the lights buzzed over my head. Keyboards clicked like little rain. I held my pass and I didnt know where to go.

Jay waved from the next desk. He had a mug with a cat on it and a messy tie, he said, you’re new right, sit here. He showed me the log in and the printer that always jammed - it groaned - and we smiled.

An email pinged: Report by 10. I felt small, like a paperclip, my hands shakey. I whispered I cant, I dont even know the file. Jay leaned in and said, its okay, we do it together.

We shared the stapler, we shared the screen, we shared the time.

By lunch the office felt less big. My chair did not squeek loud. I thought, maybe a friend can fit in a place like this, and so can I.

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

Option A:

The engine room is empty and old. Dust on the dials, dust on the pipes. The metal walls are cold, I touch them and my hand comes away grey. The lights dont work, only a thin line from a door shows a shape. I can hear a slow drip drip, maybe from a leak, maybe not. It smells like oil and damp, like a place forgot. The big wheel is stiff and it wont turn and it wont turn. I think the room is sleeping. I think of my lunch. A rat runs and then nothing, only my breath in the dark and the floor is sticky.

Option B:

It was Monday in the office. The lights were bright and the printer making a loud sound. I sat at my desk and my friend Mia sat next to me, she put a cup of coffee by my hand and smiled. It was warm like a small sun. I said thanks, my voice was small. She said, you got this. We typed, the clock walked slow. Outside rain hit the window, my phone was on 3%. We shared jokes. Work was hard but with Mia it didnt feel so big and scary, I breathed in coffee and carried on