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 Where had Tom been before he ran into the garden carrying baby birds?: With Tom's uncle in the neighbouring plantation – 1 mark
• 1.2 Who had Tom been with before entering the garden?: his uncle – 1 mark
• 1.3 How did Tom come into the garden?: running in high glee – 1 mark
• 1.4 What does Tom bring into the garden?: a group of very young birds – 1 mark

Question 2 - Mark Scheme

Look in detail at this extract, from lines 31 to 45 of the source:

31 offend them; but your uncle Robson’s opinions, of course, are nothing to me.” So saying—urged by a sense of duty—at the risk of both making myself sick and incurring the wrath of my employers—I got a large flat stone, that had been reared up for a mouse-trap by the gardener; then, having once more vainly

36 endeavoured to persuade the little tyrant to let the birds be carried back, I asked what he intended to do with them. With fiendish glee he commenced a list of torments; and while he was busied in the relation, I dropped the stone upon his intended victims and crushed them flat beneath it. Loud were the outcries, terrible the execrations, consequent upon this daring outrage; uncle Robson

41 had been coming up the walk with his gun, and was just then pausing to kick his dog. Tom flew towards him, vowing he would make him kick me instead of Juno. Mr. Robson leant upon his gun, and laughed excessively at the violence of his nephew’s passion, and the bitter maledictions and opprobrious epithets he heaped upon me. “Well, you are a good ’un!” exclaimed he, at length,

How does the writer use language here to present the narrator’s actions and the reactions of others? You could include the writer's choice of:

• words and phrases
• language features and techniques
• sentence forms.

[8 marks]

Question 2 (AO2) – Language Analysis (8 marks)

Explain, comment on and analyse how writers use language and structure to achieve effects and influence readers, using relevant subject terminology to support their views. This question assesses language (words, phrases, features, techniques, sentence forms).

Level 4 (Perceptive, detailed analysis) – 7–8 marks Shows perceptive and detailed understanding of language: analyses effects of choices; selects judicious detail; sophisticated and accurate terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 4 response would analyse how the narrator frames her intervention through a moralising parenthetical—‘—urged by a sense of duty—’—and loaded epithet ‘little tyrant’, then renders her decisive act in harsh, plosive monosyllables (‘dropped the stone’, ‘crushed them flat’), while the reactions are heightened by inverted, elevated diction and irony—‘Loud were the outcries, terrible the execrations’, ‘opprobrious epithets’, Robson ‘pausing to kick his dog’ yet ‘laughed excessively’—culminating in the dismissive exclamative ‘Well, you are a good ’un!’.

The writer frames the narrator’s intervention as principled through moralised diction and parenthetical asides. The dash insertion 'urged by a sense of duty' and the clause 'at the risk of both making myself sick and incurring the wrath of my employers' foreground self-sacrifice, presenting her act as necessary yet hazardous. Monosyllabic verbs—'I got a large flat stone'—convey agency, while the premodifiers make it deliberate, not rash. Even the passive 'had been reared up for a mouse-trap' ironises cruelty: she repurposes a trap to end suffering.

Moreover, pejorative epithets and demonic connotations cast Tom as antagonist to justify her choice. Calling him a 'little tyrant' fuses child and despot, while 'fiendish glee' aligns his delight with evil. The phrase 'commenced a list of torments' suggests cold, methodical sadism. By labelling the birds 'intended victims', she borrows legal lexis to humanise them. In contrast, the coordination 'I dropped the stone ... and crushed them flat' and the plosive 'crushed' create merciful finality, shaping her violence as protective.

Additionally, reactions are dramatised through syntactic inversion and a violent semantic field. The parallel, fronted adjectives in 'Loud were the outcries, terrible the execrations' amplify uproar with Latinate lexis, while 'daring outrage' recasts compassion as social insubordination. Mr Robson 'leant upon his gun' and 'pausing to kick his dog' fuse power and cruelty; Tom 'flew towards him' is hyperbolic, and 'make him kick me instead of Juno' chillingly redirects abuse. Finally, the dialectal direct speech—'Well, you are a good ’un!'—and 'laughed excessively' expose coarse amusement.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Shows clear understanding; explains effects; relevant detail; clear and accurate terminology. Indicative Standard: Using emotive diction and forceful verbs, the narrator appears morally compelled — "urged by a sense of duty" — and decisive, as she "dropped the stone" and "crushed them flat" after Tom’s "fiendish glee" and "list of torments". In contrast, reactions are heightened by inversion and sarcasm — "Loud were the outcries", "laughed excessively", and the sneer "Well, you are a good 'un!" — which, alongside the label "little tyrant", present their cruelty and mockery.

The writer uses emotive language and metaphor to present the narrator’s decisive, morally driven action. The parenthetical “urged by a sense of duty” justifies her choice, while “little tyrant” and “intended victims” cast Tom as cruel and the birds as innocent. The dynamic verbs “dropped” and “crushed them flat” highlight swift resolve and necessary brutality, so the reader feels shock yet sympathy for her protective act.

Furthermore, complex sentence forms and parenthesis reveal her thought process. The dash in “at the risk of… making myself sick” foregrounds self‑sacrifice, and the adverb “vainly” in “vainly endeavoured” shows she tried restraint before acting, reinforcing her moral authority.

Moreover, others’ reactions are conveyed through vivid diction and direct speech. The juxtaposition in “fiendish glee” and the verb “flew” present Tom’s vicious delight tipping into sudden rage, while the inversion “Loud were the outcries, terrible the execrations” foregrounds the ferocity of the backlash. Additionally, Mr Robson’s callousness appears in the parenthetical aside “pausing to kick his dog”; the adverb “laughed excessively” and the colloquial exclamation “Well, you are a good ’un!” suggest crude approval. Thus, the writer’s language presents the narrator as principled and active, set against the violent anger of Tom and the coarse amusement of Mr Robson.

Level 2 (Some understanding and comment) – 3–4 marks Attempts to comment on effects; some appropriate detail; some use of terminology. Indicative Standard: A typical Level 2 answer would say the writer uses emotive words and strong verbs to show the narrator acting from “urged by a sense of duty” and decisively “crushed them flat”, while others react with anger and mockery — “Loud were the outcries”, Tom “vowing” revenge, but Mr Robson “laughed excessively” as he paused to “kick his dog”.

The writer uses emotive language and powerful verbs to show the narrator’s actions. "urged by a sense of duty" shows motive; the dashes suggest risk "at the risk of...". The verbs "dropped" and "crushed them flat" are harsh, presenting a decisive act to stop suffering.

Furthermore, negative labels present Tom as cruel: calling him a "little tyrant" and his "fiendish glee" use a metaphor and emotive language to create a sinister tone. The "list of torments" (listing) makes his plans sound endless, so the narrator acts. This makes the reader understand the action.

Additionally, reactions are shown with strong nouns and exclamations: "Loud were the outcries, terrible the execrations" suggests outrage. Uncle Robson "pausing to kick his dog" and the adverb "excessively" show he enjoys it, while Tom "vowing he would make him kick me" shows spite. The exclamation "Well, you are a good 'un!" sounds sarcastic.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple comment; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer uses emotive language to show the narrator thinks the act is right, like urged by a sense of duty, and the strong action crushed them flat to make it seem decisive. Others’ reactions are shown by phrases such as Loud were the outcries, Tom vowing he would make him kick me, and Mr. Robson laughed excessively, suggesting anger and mockery.

The writer uses strong verbs to show the narrator’s actions. The verb “dropped” and “crushed them flat” make his act sound sudden and firm, and he is “urged by a sense of duty”. Furthermore, emotive language like “intended victims” and “daring outrage” makes the reader feel the birds were innocent and the act shocking. Moreover, adjectives for reactions like “Loud” and “terrible” show anger. Direct speech “Well, you are a good ’un!” and the adverb “excessively” show Robson laughing. Additionally, “fiendish glee” and “little tyrant” present Tom’s cruelty. Therefore the language shows decisive action and strong reactions.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Parenthetical dash aside articulating motive and stakes → frames the narrator’s intervention as principled despite likely consequences → urged by a sense of duty
• Concrete noun phrase for the tool → lends physical immediacy and deliberateness to the action → large flat stone
• Active, forceful verbs → present decisive, uncompromising agency in ending suffering → crushed them flat
• Subordination within a long, multi-clause sentence → builds suspense as the narrator acts during his distraction → while he was busied
• Metaphorical label for Tom → condemns his petty cruelty and power over weaker creatures → little tyrant
• Hellish connotations for his enjoyment → heightens the abhorrence of his anticipated cruelty → fiendish glee
• Victim-framing of the birds → aligns sympathy with them and justifies the narrator’s choice → intended victims
• Inverted syntax and elevated diction for the uproar → amplifies the vehemence of the backlash against the act → Loud were the outcries
• Violent threat transferring cruelty from animal to narrator → exposes impulsive aggression in the reaction → kick me instead
• Contrasting reaction marked by cool amusement and colloquial praise → presents adult complicity and mocking approval of defiance → laughed excessively

Question 3 - Mark Scheme

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

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

You could write about:

• how chaos unfolds 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 track the escalation from Tom’s entrance “running in high glee” and staccato repetition/counting (“No, not one!”, “one, two, three, four, five”) to the abrupt structural pivot “I dropped the stone,” analysing how pace, accumulation, and close-up action generate chaos. It would also explore the controlled shifts in focus and tone—collective aftermath “Loud were the outcries,” the uncle who “laughed excessively,” then the cool coda “said she, calmly”—to show how juxtaposing frenzy with chilling composure sustains disorder and exposes moral chaos.

One way the writer structures chaos is through temporal framing that snaps from calm summary to abrupt exception. We open with “during that spring,” then pivot on “that once,” a hinge that catapults us into disorder. Focus zooms from the season to Tom “running in high glee,” and the narrative shifts into moment‑by‑moment scene. Physical choreography is foregrounded (“legs wide apart… hands… face twisted”), while the barrage of direct speech—“no, not one!”—accelerates narrative pace and generates breathless tumult for the reader.

In addition, chaos escalates via a structural interruption. As Tom “commenced a list of torments,” the narrator cuts across speech with the sudden drop of “the stone.” This decisive pivot acts as a volta: it silences one thread yet unleashes many others. Instantly, “Loud were the outcries”; the focus ricochets to uncle Robson “pausing to kick his dog.” That grotesque juxtaposition multiplies disorder, and rapid turn‑taking—Tom’s threats, the uncle’s laughing endorsement—creates a polyphonic cacophony that overwhelms the scene and amplifies the sense of moral and social disarray.

A further technique is the patterned sequence of confrontations that ripples outward. The scene migrates from yard to house, from uncle to mother, marking shifts in focus, setting and tone. Noise gives way to Mrs Bloomfield’s “calmly” delivered rebuke, replacing uproar with chilled hostility and suggesting chaos has seeped into the household’s moral order. The closing retrospective coda—“This was the nearest approach to a quarrel”—slows the pace and reasserts control within a sustained first‑person frame, while retrospectively throwing the episode’s volatility into sharp relief. Through modulation of pace, strategic shifts, and cumulative escalation, the writer crafts a compelling sense of chaos.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Explains effects; relevant examples; clear terminology. Indicative Standard: Level 3: The response explains how chaos escalates through a chronological build and rapid dialogue that quickens the pace—Tom “came running in high glee”, counts “one, two, three, four, five”, shouts “No, not one!”, then the sudden interruption “while he was busied in the relation, I dropped the stone” leads to the noisy fallout “Loud were the outcries, terrible the execrations.” It also identifies shifts in focus and tone—from Robson pausing to “kick his dog” and who “laughed excessively” to the mother’s cool “casual remark about the weather”—showing how widening reactions and contrast amplify the sense of chaos.

One way in which the writer has structured the text to create a sense of chaos is by moving from calm summary to an urgent close-up. The opening “during that spring” instantly narrows to “that once,” then zooms in on Tom “came running in,” with cumulative listing of his posture and his counting “one, two, three, four, five.” This piling of clauses accelerates the pace and overwhelms the reader, mirroring disorder.

In addition, rapid-fire dialogue and interruptions fragment the narrative. Repetition and imperatives (“You daren’t…”) and the parenthetic dash (“urged by a sense of duty”) make the sequence jagged. The sudden action—“I dropped the stone”—forms a structural climax, followed at once by fallout (“Loud were the outcries”) and the abrupt entrance of Mr Robson, which escalates the turmoil.

A further structural feature is the shifting focus through a chain of confrontations: from the boy, to the uncle, to the mother. This progression changes tone from noisy uproar to clipped calm (“I am sorry…”), sustaining conflict at a moral level. The sustained first-person viewpoint holds the thread, shaping an arc from eruption to aftermath (“nearest approach to a quarrel”), so the reader feels chaos ripple from physical cruelty to social and moral discord.

Level 2 (Some understanding and comment) – 3–4 marks Attempts to comment; some examples; some terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 2 response would typically identify that the chaos builds as the text moves from Tom running in high glee and shouting No, not one! with a list one, two, three, four, five, to the sudden action I dropped the stone and the noisy reaction Loud were the outcries, terrible the execrations. It might also notice how chaos spreads when uncle Robson had been coming up the walk with his gun joins in, before the tone cools to doubly dark and chilled, showing a shift from excitement to conflict and aftermath.

One way the writer structures the text to create chaos is at the beginning through fast dialogue and counting. Tom shouts “No, not one!” and “one, two, three, four, five”, which speeds up the pace and feels rushed. The description piles up his actions (“legs wide apart… hands… body… face”), creating a messy effect.

In addition, there is a turning point in the middle when the narrator drops the stone and “crushed them flat”. This sudden climax is followed by “Loud were the outcries”, and the focus shifts as the uncle arrives “with his gun”, adding more conflict and noise.

A further feature is the change in tone at the end. The scene moves to a cooler talk with Mrs Bloomfield, and the pace slows. The narrator says, “I judged it prudent to say no more.” This contrast makes the earlier chaos stand out.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: Chaos is shown through a fast sequence and lots of dialogue: Tom “came running in”, shouts “No, not one!”, lists “one, two, three, four, five”, and then “Loud were the outcries”, making it feel noisy. The focus shifts from the children to “uncle Robson” and “his mamma”, so the mood moves from excitement to arguing, adding to the disorder.

One way the writer creates chaos is through rapid dialogue and exclamations. When Tom runs in, he lists 'one, two, three, four, five'. This quick talk speeds the pace and makes the moment sound loud and frantic.

In addition, the focus keeps shifting between people: Tom, the narrator, Uncle Robson, then the mother. These quick switches, like 'Loud were the outcries', make the scene feel busy and out of control.

A further feature is the build to a climax. It peaks at 'I dropped the stone', then shifts to a colder mood with the mother, which contrasts with the earlier chaos.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Framing contrast from calm seasonal summary to a single disruptive exception primes a sudden eruption of disorder (but once)
• Sudden kinetic entrance and scramble of attention accelerate pace, flooding the scene with movement and excitement (came running in high glee)
• Rapid-fire direct speech with repetition and counting creates a breathless rhythm and competing voices that feel unruly (one, two, three, four, five)
• Cumulative staging in a long sentence crowds the moment, visually embodying frenzy in Tom’s stance and contortions (legs wide apart)
• Intrusive narrator asides bracketed by dashes fracture flow, mirroring turmoil as duty collides with impulse (urged by a sense of duty)
• Delay-and-drop pattern—planning, then instant execution—jolts from anticipation to shock, spiking the chaotic impact (crushed them flat)
• Compressed aftermath in inverted syntax spotlights noise and disorder overrunning sense (Loud were the outcries)
• Piled, overlapping actions and arrivals (boy, uncle, gun, dog) keep the scene in motion, multiplying disturbance (pausing to kick his dog)
• Moral inversion through Uncle’s celebratory praise of cruelty deepens chaos by upending expected adult control (nobler little scoundrel)
• Swift pivot to a cool, clipped ideological dispute sustains tension in a new register before retrospective containment (nearest approach to a quarrel)

Question 4 - Mark Scheme

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

In this part of the source, where Uncle Robson laughs at Tom's cruelty, his reaction feels more shocking than the boy’s tantrum. The writer suggests that it is the adults who are truly to blame for the child's bad character.

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

In your response, you could:

• consider your impressions of Uncle Robson's shocking behaviour
• comment on the methods the writer uses to suggest the adults' blame for Tom's cruelty
• 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 deliberately renders adult complicity more shocking than the child’s tantrum, foregrounding Robson’s endorsement of cruelty as he laughed excessively at Tom’s violence, oxymoronically praises him as a nobler little scoundrel, and facilitates further abuse with I’ll get you another brood to-morrow, while his air of supreme contempt and pause to kick his dog imply ingrained brutality. It would also show how Mrs Bloomfield’s cool justifications—created for our convenience, soulless brute—are ethically challenged by the narrator’s biblical counterpoint (Blessed are the merciful), revealing the writer’s viewpoint that adult approval and ideology cultivate the boy’s cruelty.

I strongly agree that Uncle Robson’s reaction is more shocking than Tom’s tantrum, and that the writer lays primary blame on the adults who enable—and even celebrate—his cruelty. Although Tom is introduced with the loaded epithets “little tyrant” and “fiendish glee,” the narrative voice frames his savagery within childhood impulsiveness; by contrast, the adult responses are calculated, ideological, and thus more disturbing.

The passage carefully builds this contrast. Before the adults arrive, the narrator acts “urged by a sense of duty,” a morally inflected phrase that legitimises her decisive intervention as she “crushed” the birds to spare them “a list of torments.” The formal, almost forensic register—“Loud were the outcries, terrible the execrations”—elevates Tom’s rage, but also distances it, casting his “bitter maledictions and opprobrious epithets” as a theatrical outburst rather than principled conviction. Structurally, Uncle Robson’s entrance “just then,” with its adverbial timing, is a pivot: he appears “with his gun,” “pausing to kick his dog,” a brutally casual parataxis that normalises violence in the adult world.

Robson’s response is rendered with chilling irony. He “laughed excessively” at Tom’s “passion,” the hyperbolic adverb and the intrusive “Ha, ha, ha!” dramatising indecent delight in cruelty. His oxymoronic praise—“a nobler little scoundrel”—rebrands viciousness as virtue, while the masculinist lexis of “spunk” and “beyond petticoat government” explicitly undermines the moral authority of “mother, granny, governess, and all.” The cumulative list amplifies his contempt for female influence and exposes the adult value system Tom is absorbing. Most damningly, “I’ll get you another brood to-morrow” signals active collusion: the future-tense promise, the commodifying noun “brood,” and the breezy immediacy of “to-morrow” show an adult perpetuating the cycle of harm. His “broad stare” and “supreme contempt” towards the narrator further invert moral standards, punishing compassion and rewarding cruelty.

Mrs Bloomfield’s quieter complicity is, in a different register, equally culpable. Her “aspect and demeanour… doubly dark and chilled” metaphorically cold-shoulder mercy, and her calm doctrinal defence—“the creatures were all created for our convenience,” “a soulless brute”—betrays a specious theology. The writer sets her claims against the narrator’s biblical allusions—“Blessed are the merciful,” “The merciful man shows mercy to his beast”—to foreground moral irony: she accuses Miss Grey of lacking mercy with a “short, bitter laugh,” echoing Robson’s laughter in miniature. The closing structural note—“the nearest approach to a quarrel”—suggests entrenched power: adult ideology silences reform.

Overall, while Tom’s tantrum is reprehensible, the writer’s juxtaposition, ironic dialogue, and charged lexis make the adults’ endorsement and rebranding of cruelty more shocking. The text persuasively implies that Tom’s “bad character” is not innate but curated by those who should correct it.

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, clearly explaining that adult complicity is more shocking: Uncle Robson laughed excessively, hails Tom as a nobler little scoundrel, and promises I’ll get you another brood, while Mrs Bloomfield excuses cruelty as created for our convenience and a soulless brute. It would also acknowledge the child’s fiendish glee, but show how the writer’s dialogue and moral allusion—Blessed are the merciful—target the adults’ values.

I largely agree that Uncle Robson’s reaction is more shocking than Tom’s tantrum, and that the writer points the blame at the adults who enable and celebrate cruelty. Through the first-person narrative, the incident is framed by Agnes’s “sense of duty”, which casts Tom as a “little tyrant” acting with “fiendish glee”. That lexis certainly makes the child’s behaviour disturbing, but the structural shift when Robson enters intensifies our shock. He is first seen “pausing to kick his dog” — a grim foreshadowing — and then “laughed excessively” at the boy’s “violence”. The juxtaposition of kicking and laughing, and the adverb “excessively”, expose his callousness. In direct speech, the writer loads Robson’s lines with exclamatives and coarse oaths (“Damme… Curse me… Ha, ha, ha!”), as he hails Tom a “nobler little scoundrel”. This ironic praise normalises vice; most chilling is the promise to “get you another brood to-morrow”, which shows adult complicity in perpetuating harm.

The ensuing dialogue with Mrs Bloomfield widens the critique to the household. Her “doubly dark and chilled” manner and “short, bitter laugh” characterise a cold moral climate. She defends cruelty with tidy aphorisms — “created for our convenience”, “a soulless brute” — while Agnes counters with Scripture: “Blessed are the merciful… The merciful man shows mercy to his beast.” This intertextual reference underlines the narrator’s ethical stance, but the mother’s calm rebuttal and Robson’s “supreme contempt” for Agnes suggest entrenched adult values. Even the narrator’s act, branded a “daring outrage”, is framed ironically to expose how warped the adult hierarchy is.

Overall, I agree to a large extent. Tom’s tantrum is troubling, yet the adults’ laughter, language and authority validate and replenish his cruelty. By contrasting Agnes’s principled intervention with Robson’s celebration and Mrs Bloomfield’s sanction, the writer makes adult responsibility the truly shocking force.

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, noting Uncle Robson 'laughed excessively', called Tom 'a nobler little scoundrel', and even paused to 'kick his dog', making his reaction more shocking than the boy’s tantrum. It would also pick out Mrs Bloomfield’s claims that animals are 'created for our convenience', calling them a 'soulless brute', as simple evidence that the adults excuse and encourage Tom’s cruelty.

I largely agree that Uncle Robson’s behaviour is more shocking than Tom’s, and that the adults are to blame for the boy’s bad character. Tom’s “outcries” and “fiendish glee” show he enjoys cruelty, but the writer quickly contrasts this with Robson arriving “kicking his dog” and then he “laughed excessively.” The adverb “excessively” and the violent verb “kicking” make the adult seem deliberately heartless. Through dialogue he even praises Tom as a “nobler little scoundrel,” which feels like praise for evil, and he boasts that the boy “defies mother, granny, governess.” This admiration normalises the tantrum and encourages it. His promise, “I’ll get you another brood to-morrow,” shows he will feed the cruelty. Because he should set an example, his reaction feels worse than the child’s.

The writer also suggests wider adult blame through Mrs Bloomfield. Her manner is “doubly dark and chilled,” and she speaks “calmly,” which makes her cold approval more unsettling than shouting. In the dialogue she claims the creatures were “created for our convenience” and calls them a “soulless brute.” This language excuses harm. Against that, the narrator uses a Bible reference, “Blessed are the merciful,” to show the moral alternative. The move from the uncle’s laughter to the mother’s polite defence shows both adults protect Tom and isolate the governess.

Overall, I agree to a large extent: the adults’ praise and justification shape Tom’s bad character. Although Tom shows “fiendish glee,” the writer makes clear the real fault lies with those who teach him.

Level 1 (Simple, limited) – 1–5 marks Simple ideas; limited methods; simple evaluation; simple references. Indicative Standard: A Level 1 response might simply agree that adults are to blame, noting Uncle Robson “laughed excessively”, calls Tom a “nobler little scoundrel”, and promises “I’ll get you another brood to-morrow”, which encourages the cruelty. It might also point out Mrs Bloomfield says animals were “created for our convenience”, showing the adults support Tom’s behaviour.

I mostly agree with the statement. Tom is shown as cruel, but Uncle Robson’s reaction is more shocking and the writer makes the adults look responsible. At first Tom speaks with “fiendish glee” about torturing the birds, so we see his tantrum. However, when Uncle Robson arrives, he “laughed excessively” at the “violence” and even praises him as a “nobler little scoundrel.” The verbs and the exclamation marks make his approval loud and careless. He is also “pausing to kick his dog,” which shows adult cruelty, so it feels worse than a child’s anger.

The writer also uses dialogue to blame the other adults. Mrs Bloomfield says the creatures were “created for our convenience” and calls them a “soulless brute,” spoken “calmly.” This calm tone makes the wrong idea seem normal. Even when the narrator quotes “Blessed are the merciful,” the mother gives a “short, bitter laugh.” This contrast makes it seem like the adults encourage Tom and excuse him.

Overall, I agree to a large extent: the adults’ language and actions make the child’s bad character, so Uncle Robson’s laughter is more shocking than Tom’s tantrum.

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:

• Contrast of adult laughter with the child’s rage heightens shock: calm amusement makes cruelty feel acceptable and thus more disturbing than a tantrum (laughed excessively).
• Adult modelling of violence shifts blame: Robson is introduced mid-abuse, normalising harm before Tom imitates it (kick his dog).
• Ironic praise reframes depravity as admirable, encouraging vice: Robson’s celebratory diction glamorises the boy’s malice (nobler little scoundrel).
• Active enabling shows responsibility: promising fresh victims undoes any correction and sustains the cycle of cruelty (get you another brood).
• Undermining female authority fosters impunity: contempt for “mother, granny, governess” validates Tom’s defiance and stunts moral guidance (beyond petticoat government).
• Maternal doctrine excuses harm: reducing animals to tools dehumanises empathy and licenses the boy’s “amusements” (soulless brute).
• Moral counterpoint via scripture spotlights adult blindness: the narrator’s appeal to compassion is dismissed, showing values taught at home are skewed (shows mercy to his beast).
• Loaded characterisation balances judgment: Tom’s relish in torment suggests agency, yet its indulgence appears learned from elders (fiendish glee).
• Adult scorn deters virtue: Robson’s hostile gaze and manner silence challenge, entrenching a culture that breeds cruelty (supreme contempt).
• Duty set against employer power implies systemic blame: right action risks punishment in this household, pointing to adult culpability (sense of duty).

Question 5 - Mark Scheme

A team designing a new city app is looking for creative writing to feature on its launch screen.

Choose one of the options below for your entry.

• Option A: Describe an interactive information kiosk late at night from your imagination. You may choose to use the picture provided for ideas:

• Option B: Write the opening of a story about a message that appears in the wrong place.

(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:

At this late hour, the kiosk is the only thing awake. It stands in its glassy certainty at the edge of the pavement, a slim obelisk emitting a steady blue-white glow that pools on the slabs and slicks itself into the shallow rainwater, doubling the city in trembling reflection. Neon shivers in the puddles; the stars are drowned by backlit maps. The night seems to lean in, curious.

Under the fingerprint-resistant glass, the map holds the city still: districts in pastel, routes like capillaries, the river a tranquil artery of unblinking ink. A red dot pulses—You are here—as if it has a heartbeat of its own. Smudged traces arc across the surface, ghostly palimpsests of questions: quick, greasy crescents from hurried thumbs; the faint grain of a child’s palm, spread wide; a smear that travels north, then east, then nowhere. The kiosk hums almost imperceptibly, a whisper of ventilators and patient diodes. If you place your ear close, there is a susurration, the mechanical equivalent of breathing.

Meanwhile, the street performs its pared-back night routine. A bus exhales and lumbers past, scattering a confetti of lamplight and drizzle; a cyclist knifes through the empty junction; the wind collects a crumpled receipt, dithers, gives up. A moth—yes, like a moth to a flame—twirls in circles around the brightness, its paper-thin body sketching erratic orbits that the map ignores.

Someone approaches. The screen brightens infinitesimally, obliging, awake, ready. Fingers hover, hesitate, land; the interface answers with compliant ripples. Typeface is clean, consoling. Suddenly itineraries proliferate: galleries, riverside walks, the last train, the quickest route to a twenty-four-hour pharmacy. Names are pronounced by a subtly synthetic voice—confident, polished, a shade too cheerful for one a.m.—while icons bloom and fold with courteous inevitability. The person nods, half-listening, already leaving. Within seconds the kiosk returns to its neutral politeness, the home map resetting like a face smoothing itself in a mirror.

However, it is not only information that the kiosk offers; it advertises possibilities. Panels parade across the glass: artisanal bakeries smiling their fresh mornings, theatres mid-applause, exhibitions drenched in daylight. The irony is almost tender. Those doors are closed; those windows are dark; those promises are asleep. Yet the kiosk keeps suggesting, proposing, ushering: perhaps tomorrow, perhaps later, perhaps soon.

A cat idles by and pauses under the machine’s light, a brief, inscrutable statue. Rain stipples; the pixels blink, accommodating the damp with a stoic resilience. Once—just once—the screen judders into a square of static, confettied with white, and the map contracts on itself before blooming back, contrite; a brief failure, then composure. Nevertheless, its composure is unarguable. It is, in this pocket of night, a kind of lighthouse, supervising the shoals of streets and the occasional vessel that dares sail them.

By degrees, the horizon unblues. The first tram’s bell murmurs; a baker’s bulb winks awake downstream. On the kiosk’s surface, the red dot persists—small, insistent, unembarrassed—whispering orientation into the last folds of darkness: You are here. You are here. You are, still, here. And the city, yawning, begins to believe it.

Option B:

Monday. The day of sensible shoes and municipal notices; a day that makes lists; a day that polishes its badge. The town smelt of damp bricks and coffee grounds; buses exhaled tired heat. Maya rode the canal path with the practised steadiness of someone who believes in routine: coat zipped to her chin, fingers numb inside cheap gloves, chain whispering through puddle grime as the city woke in slow increments.

Messages, in her world, belonged to phones, to clean blue bubbles and tidy fonts. They slotted into the right places: inboxes, noticeboards, a teacher’s email that arrived at 7.42 precisely. So when the first amber blink reached her from the curve ahead, she barely looked up; roadworks signs were background.

The sign did not belong there. A hulking rectangle on squat legs, it squatted at the edge of the towpath as if it had lumbered down from the ring road for a drink. Its trailer smelled faintly of hot metal; its panel chattered with rain. LEDs arranged themselves in the usual officious urgency—CYCLE DIVERSION AHEAD—then hiccuped; the words dissolved; they reassembled.

MAYA, DON'T GO HOME.

She braked so hard the back wheel skated, the handlebars knocked her ribs, and a cloud of breath burst from her like torn paper. For a moment she could only listen: the slick slap of water; a dog's tags chiming; the metronomic clicking of the sign. Her name hung there, blocky and brazen, pulsing amber.

A prank, she told herself. Someone from school with a key to the council depot; someone who wanted a laugh. And yet—how? The wrongness of it was precise; it had the cool cheek of a fingerprint. Messages like that live in corners, in whispers, not twelve-inch-high on municipal hardware.

She glanced behind her. No one. A cyclist arrowed past; he didn't even slow. The sign clicked; the bland message returned, as if her eyes had lied.

Maya touched the phone in her pocket but did not take it out. If she phoned, whom would she call? Mum would panic (inventing disasters with operatic energy); Dad would laugh and say it was 'just tech'; Safiya would turn it into a podcast before registration. She could taste the word home as if it were a coin.

In the end, forward was easier than retreat. The pedals took her past the sign and towards school, though the canal seemed narrower and the air colder. She tried to file the moment away—misread, misfire, mischief—but the categories wouldn't hold.

And then, just before the bridge, someone had chalked a message on the slick black towpath, where no chalk should stay. It was already blurring in the drizzle, but she could make it out: SAME AGAIN.

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

Option A:

The kiosk stands sentinel on the empty pavement, a narrow monolith of glass shouldering the night. Its pallid light spills in a clean rectangle at its base, ironing the puddles flat; above, the city thins to a hush; even the traffic whispers. Inside the housing a small fan purrs—industrious, unbothered—while the touchscreen breathes in slow gradients of marine blue. Municipal yet strangely intimate, it waits.

On the screen the city becomes anatomy: pale veins of roads interlace into a luminous torso; junctions blink like measured heartbeats. A modest white dot insists you are here—here, precisely here—polite, persistent. Icons drift at the edges: a hospital cross, a knife-and-fork, a moon over a crescent bed. The glass, freckled with fingerprints, holds the day’s history: greasy whorls, dusty arcs from hurried hands, a childish star traced and half-wiped. It is a palimpsest of touch, municipal and private at once. The smell around it is rain and stone and a late, distant hint of diesel; the sound is a tender whirr and the occasional electronic chirrup, as if it were clearing its throat.

Now and then, the night approaches. Two students sway into its pool of light, laughing too loudly at nothing. Tap, pinch, swipe—again and again. The map obliges, telescoping from district to doorway. They wander off, haloed; the kiosk recomposes itself. Between these small visitations, an advert slides in with theatrical confidence: COME STAY, it declares over a bed as white as cloud; then another—tickets, noodles, a festival no one is at right now. The brightness feels almost too eager; the kiosk mistakes night for an audience. Later, a nurse with a plastic bag and tired eyes stands still; her finger hovers, then presses; a route draws itself in soft turquoise, calm as a vein beneath skin. She nods; she breathes; she goes.

It is strange, this kindness in circuitry. Who asked it to keep vigil? It offers coordinates rather than consolation, yet the difference is not as large as it looks: people want to know where, and where becomes a kind of why. The kiosk stands and stands, a slightly clumsy lighthouse for landlocked streets, a screensaver for the city that refuses to sleep. In the puddle beside it the map repeats itself upside down; by morning the fingerprints will vanish, but tonight its glow feels almost human—steadfast, modest, and patient.

Option B:

Morning. The hour when the station inhales and holds it—just for a second—before exhaling commuters onto the platforms. Glass panes sieve winter light; the rails hum; the air tastes of coffee and cold metal. It is ordinary; it is dependable. That is why I chose it.

I wedge myself between a newspaper and a raincoat at Platform 3, scarf tucked under my chin, ticket clenched so tightly it creases. The departure board blinks its amber squares into order: 08:17 Norwich ON TIME; 08:23 Cambridge DELAYED; 08:29 Peterborough PLATFORM 5. The letters ripple, then—impossible—settle into words that feel utterly incongruous. It writes: DO NOT BOARD THE 08:17, MIRA.

My name stares down at me, stark as a warning label. A departure board is for times and places, not for people—certainly not for me. Sound collapses: the hiss of brakes, the click of a lighter. I look left and right, as if someone might step forward and explain. Is there another Mira? A prank? Some glitch chewing through the code? Not possible!

The board winks, as if embarrassed by its own audacity, and reverts: 08:17 Norwich ON TIME. Around me, nothing changes: a woman applies lipstick; a man folds his umbrella with surgical care; a toddler drums a boot against the bench. Maybe I misread it.

I am not running away—at least, not in the theatrical sense. I have an interview on Prince Street, a folder of portfolios that smell faintly of ink, a promise I made to Mum (sleeping when I left, her hair still wet from the night shift): I’ll try. New city, new chance. Yet the message lands inside me like a stone in a bucket; the ripples are immediate, unavoidable.

The 08:17 eases into the station with a shy squeal. Doors open with a soft cough. People funnel forward. The yellow line holds its breath. I step up, then pause—one foot on concrete, one poised in the gap—because the board, for a heartbeat, forgets itself again. The amber pixels stutter and deliver a second verdict: DO NOT BOARD.

I step back. I do not know who sent it, or how, or why it has chosen the wrong place to find me—but the wrong place is suddenly the only place I am looking. The guard’s whistle darts through the air. I wait, pulse ticking, for an explanation that does not arrive.

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

Option A:

A glass rectangle floats on the pavement, luminous as an aquarium left in a dark room. It throws a cold pane of blue across wet slabs; raindrops stipple the light into little coins. Above, everything is switched off—shops shuttered, offices blind—yet the kiosk hums. On the screen, a crooked map holds its breath; in the corner a dot pulses: You are here.

Inside its chest, a fan breathes: faint, regular. A polite voice loops from a sleepy speaker: ‘Touch to begin’. Fingerprints bloom on the glass, an archive of strangers and their anxious thumbs. An advert crawls up the sidebar—hotels, exhibitions, burgers—and turns with a soft click. A moth tests the brightness, tap-tapping its paper wings against the pane.

A courier coasts to the kerb and brakes; tyres hiss on grit. He lifts his palm, still damp inside his glove, and it is answered by a ripple of icons. They swim away, come back; the map yawns open. Names spool out in thin, pale type—Marsh Lane; West Parade. The ‘You are here’ blinks like a patient heartbeat. He pinches, drags; the kiosk hesitates, then obeys. Meanwhile, a bus exhales; a fox skitters; rain returns in a finer thread. He goes, and the glass cools.

Left alone, it resets; a glossy skyline silts over the map. Screensaver. It offers its smile again—‘Touch to begin’—never tired, never unkind. The casing shivers with wind; a droplet threads down the edge and hangs like a tiny lens, making the word ‘Help’ bulbous and strange. There is a faint smell of ozone—the clean sting of electronics—and, inside, circuit boards, data, a relentless, blue breath. However, small flaws betray it—pixels dim at the corner, a bruise of shadow; the voice mispronounces Grosvenor with cheerful certainty; grey gum grits the base. Still, it waits—patient as furniture, formal as a librarian—ready to point, to placate, to tell you where to go. It is not quite dawn; the sky loosens to slate, and the kiosk keeps its square of light on the ground like a held-out map. It says the same thing it has said all day, and it means it: You are here.

Option B:

Morning. The station yawned awake beneath a sky the colour of chewed pencil; pigeons pattered along the rafters while the departure board hissed and blinked into consciousness. I stood between a man with a newspaper and a girl with glittering nails, my coffee cooling in my gloves, the smell of oil and rain thick as soup. Usually, messages here were predictable—delays, diversions, apologies; the board a palimpsest of excuses.

Then the letters cascaded across the board, not numbers but words, not times but a warning: LEAH, DON'T GO HOME.

It was my name, in that square, official orange, as if the railway itself had decided to whisper to me. A small sound ran through the crowd—an intake of breath that tugged at scarves. I stared so hard my eyes watered; the H trembled; the apostrophe in DON'T stuttered, shy. Who would write that? Why here, of all places?

The loudspeaker coughed, tried to intervene: "We apologise for the—" and then choked on silence. I wanted to laugh, because it felt like one of those pranks you scroll past; yet the cold threaded through my coat, saying take this seriously. Last night an unknown number had rung twice (ignored), and there had been a voicemail I deleted before the first line finished because I was late, because I was tired, because everything lately felt too loud.

Around me, phones lifted, screens glowed, a scatter of whispers: "Did you see that?" "Who's Leah?" The board blinked back to normal as if embarrassed: 08:17 to King's Cross, on time. Then—again—those four words crawled back, insistent. The letters looked wrong here, like salt poured into the sugar jar, like a fire alarm chiming during a lullaby.

I edged towards the kiosk for warmth, pretending to browse gum and batteries, but the hand-painted chalkboard propped by the coffee machine was no comfort. Where it should have said today's soup—tomato and basil—someone, somehow, had written: don't go home. Lower case, smudged, as if the message was trying to hide but couldn't.

Ridiculous, yes—but as the train sighed in, my name lingered in the air like smoke.

I stepped forward; moving felt simpler than thinking. Home was only three stops away.

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

Option A:

At the edge of the pavement, the information kiosk glows like a small aquarium in the dark. Its square light spills onto the wet slabs, colouring them a faint blue. The street is mostly empty; a bus sighs far away. The air smells of rainwater and petrol, a cold mix that makes the night feel wider. The kiosk waits, a patient box humming to itself.

Up close, it looks both clean and used. The aluminium frame is scratched; the glass is smudged by fingerprints, rings, even a half-moon where someone pressed a forehead. Under the screen, a narrow slot has collected grit and a dull coin. Around the base the concrete is darker: a tide-mark of damp, a lip of chewing gum, a few timid weeds. It stands straight, stubborn and dutiful.

On the screen a map blooms, too bright for midnight. Bus routes thread through the city like coloured veins; landmarks float as pale icons; a red circle says You are here. When a finger touches, the kiosk gives a small vibration—polite, almost shy—and the path redraws itself. From the tiny speaker comes a tinny voice: “Please select destination.” Tap to begin.

Sometimes no one comes. A cyclist passes with a hiss; a taxi idles and pulls away. Then a man with a rucksack arrives, uncertain, wet sleeves stuck to his wrists. He frowns at the menus, taps the wrong thing, apologises out loud. The screen forgives him and offers options: shortcuts, buses, the slow walk by the river. He nods, as if it were a person.

When he leaves, the kiosk returns to its vigil. It stares out at slick paving and faded shopfronts, humming under its breath. Small, square, ordinary, it keeps the night company—and gives it a map.

Option B:

Morning. The time of lists and alarms; timetables clipped to metal frames; coffee cooling on a windowsill while the day remembers to wake. At the stop on Bridge Street, the glass shelter smelt of wet wool and old newspapers. The digital board hummed, polite and precise, ticking through routes and minutes. Rain made tiny silver commas on the pavement, and the wind kept tugging at a torn poster about piano lessons.

Elise wrapped her scarf twice and pressed her hands into her pockets. Her phone was on two percent, stubbornly refusing to charge last night; she didn’t want to waste it. Instead, she watched the board, as if it were a serious face. Next bus: 07:29 — On time. Good. The morning liked order. She liked it too, usually.

A van splashed by; a gull cried, sounding like a rusty hinge. The board flickered, just a blur at first, like a moth bumping a lamp. Then the numbers sank away. New lettering crawled across the black screen, slow and deliberate, as if someone were typing right there inside the glass.

ELISE — DON’T GO HOME.

Every blue seat seemed to hold its breath. An elderly man peered up through his wet spectacles, frowning. A schoolboy whispered the words out loud, careful and exact. Elise felt her name sit cold on her tongue. This wasn’t where messages went. This was for routes and times, not for warnings or secrets.

She stared, waiting for the joke to reveal itself. Was there a camera? Was someone laughing? Her heart had begun a strange, jumpy rhythm; she could hear it more than feel it. The board flickered again. The line shrank, letters thinning, then the usual calm returned: 07:29 — Due.

The bus arrived with a hiss, a door folding open like a mouth. Elise stepped forward, then hesitated. Don’t go home. The phrase tapped at her like rain on a window.

“Are you getting on?” the driver asked, bored but not unkind.

She nodded, but her eyes went back to the screen—back to the wrong message in the wrong place—searching for it to appear again.

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

Option A:

The kiosk stands under a tired streetlamp, a small aquarium of light on the wet pavement. Its screen glows an icy blue; a skeleton of streets, thin veins branching. It's glass is smudged with fingerprints and half-moons. A faint hum lives inside it, like a fridge left on after midnight. Rain freckles the metal; beads crawl. A speaker clears its digital throat, as if testing itself.

At this hour the city is almost empty, but not quite. Footsteps come, hesitant, then braver. A hooded man leans in. Tap, tap, tap — the map wobbles; a polite beep answers. Please select destination, it says, too cheerful for two a.m. The screen offers this: routes, icons, tiny stars for stations. He swipes; the city slides under his finger; he misses and tries again. It lags a little, stubborn like a sleepy cat. He sighs, wipes the glass with his sleeve, making new streaks.

After him, a woman with a scuffed suitcase pauses. She presses lighter; the voice chirps, then falters, then chirps. Another set of beeps, another line highlighted in thin neon. And then the pavement is bare again, quieter, almost too quite. Wrappers skitter and spin. Moths orbit the glow; their shadows jitter across the map like tiny storms. The kiosk blinks, steadies, blinks. It pretends to be awake — brave, helpful, municipal. But the blue halo leaks into the night, and the machine waits, blinking softly, holding a city that keeps slipping from its glass.

Option B:

Morning yawned over Platform 4; a pale lid of sky pressed against the glass roof. The air smelt of coffee and wet metal; posters shivered; pigeons strutted like tiny inspectors. I hugged my rucksack so it didn’t slip again, the strap biting my collarbone. I had set three alarms, just in case, and still felt late. Brighton, ticket folded in my pocket. A plan, sort of.

The old departure board clattered and clicked like teeth. It cleared it's throat; letters rolled, destinations shuffled. 07:42 Brighton — On time. 08:03 Portsmouth — Delayed. Then, in the middle line, the wrong words grew. LEAH, DON’T GET ON. In block capitals, luminous and wrong. In the wrong place. I blinked, the words were still there. A toddler laughed at nothing, a guard frowned at his watch. Someone snorted. The board hiccuped, and the message slid away as if it had never been, back to trains and platforms.

My name didn’t belong up there. Messages live in phones, on sticky notes, in my mum’s neat handwriting on the fridge; not on a machine built for times. Was it a prank? It felt wierd, like the station knew more than me. I checked my cracked screen. No texts. No call. Me and Mum had spoken at midnight; she’d said be brave. My heart thudded anyway. I could step on. I could step back. Suddenly the tannoy coughed—Brighton boarding—and the day tilted.

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

Option A:

Under the streetlamps, the kiosk stood like a small lighthouse, its screen glowing a pale blue on the empty pavement. It hummed, soft and steady, as if breathing. The map swam with colours, greens and yellows, and a blinking dot that said You Are Here. No one answered. A gust of wind scraped leaves along the slabs and the glass shivered. Tap to begin, the letters invited; the night did not.

Firstly, my eye was pulled to the smudges and fingerprints, loops of lives pressed on the glass. There was a coffee stain by the base, and chewing gum like a white pebble. The sides were cool metal, slightly wet with mist; I could see my faint face drifting there. The kiosk kept working anyway, a patient helper - repeating the same calm screens again and again.

Then a fox crossed the road and paused, staring at its own ghost in the screen. The map flashed to a new area, glitchy, squares loading like tiny doors. A soft beep sounded, hopeful. Finally, the city seemed to lean in, the last bus growled past, and the kiosk waited. It waited like a shop keeper after hours, glowing, ready for a stranger who might never come.

Option B:

Monday mornings at school are always slow and grey. The corridor smelled of chips and wet coats. Fluorescent lights hummed like tired bees; the big screen above the canteen blinked, then blinked again. Posters for drama club curled at the corners. Shoes squeaked. I hugged my bag to my chest and tried not to slip on the shiny floor, like a mirror somebody forgot to clean. Another day, I told myself. Another tray, another bell, another list of homework.

Then the screen changed. Not the menu. Not the timetable. Big white letters crawled across a blue square: ELLIE - THE KEY IS IN THE OLD MUSIC ROOM. DON'T LET MUM FIND OUT. My name was in it. My stomach dipped, fast. People stopped, a spoon fell. You could hear it. The message didn't belong there; it looked wrong, like a shoe in the freezer. It was private, mine, a thing I had whispered into a paper note and folded small.

How did it climb up there? Last night I'd shoved the note in my pocket. I was going to give it to my brother, later. My thumbs shook. Someone sniggered. "Who's Ellie?" they said. I wanted to be invisible - I wasn't. The screen flickered again, and the message started to repeat.

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

Option A:

On the dark pavement a kiosk glows. It is like a big phone standing up. The glass is smeared with rain. Blue lines cross the map, little boxes, little names I can hardly read. The metal side feels cold, it hums and a tiny light blinks under the screen. Touch to begin, the words say - so simple and a bit bossy.

I stand there, just me and it. Touch to begin. There ain't no buses or people. When I press the panel the map slides and jumps. It beeps once and shows an arrow, it tells me where to go. My face floats in the glass like a ghost from a cheap movie.

The wind pushes flyers round my feet. Light spills on a puddle and wobbles. I hear a taxi far away, I smell wet rubber and dust. The kiosk keeps on shining, steady, like a small moon and it dont feel tired.

Option B:

Monday morning. Grey sky over the school. The hall smelt of polish and wet coats. Everyone was half asleep, yawning. Miss Carter said be quiet. I held my phone in my pocket, my thumb tapped.

We was waiting for the big screen to show notices. I typed a message: are you ok. My heart bumped like a drum. Then the projector blink and the screen turned blue, then white, and my words jumped up there, huge, wrong, shouting!

People laughed, some gasped. I seen my name at the top because stupid bluetooth or whatever. I wanted to hide under the chair.

Miss looked at me, her mouth tight. She said my name slow. My phone buzzed. A new message came, not mine, it said, Come home now. It was there as well. It didnt belong here, it should of been in my hand, not on a wall in front of everyone.

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

Option A:

It is late and the kiosk is still on. The screen is bright and blue, it glows and glows. The little map shows roads and a dot wich blinks, beep, beep. Cold air on my face, the glass is warm from hands, smudgey prints all over it and a sticky mark. It says Touch here, Touch here! but nobody. The pavement is wet and shining like a mirror and the box hums, low. A taxi swoshes by, I hear it. A fox looks then goes. I press once and it thinks for ages, then nothing, it dont care. I get tired and think about chips alot.

Option B:

It is Monday. I am at the bus stop. The board is big and orange. It should show numbers. It shows a message. It says DON'T OPEN THE BLUE DOOR. Everyone reads it. A boy laughs. I dont know why. The driver comes and shrugs, the bus is still not here and people start to complain and look at me. The message is in the wrong place. It looks like a shout and it feels like it is to me but I aint got a blue door. I think about my house and my key and my mum. I also forgot my homework.