At just after 6.30pm on Tuesday, residents of Saint-Etienne-du-Rouvray congregated at the town hall, a short walk from where two suspected Islamist terrorists had burst into a church that morning and slit the throat of the local, much-loved, priest.

Amid tears and whispers, and some in stone-cold silence, the residents approached the steps of the municipal building. They lit candles and laid flowers in memory of 86-year-old Jacques Hamel, who had died in the horror unleashed earlier that day.

“It’s very difficult to cope with,” said Yohanan Natanson, a representative of the local Jewish community who had come to express solidarity. “It leaves you with a strong feeling of anger but also of disgust.”

For long stretches of the afternoon, it seemed as if all normal activity in the small town tacked on to the edge of the Normandy city of Rouen had juddered to a halt. Neighbours, shop owners, pensioners and school children were taking to the streets in shock and bewilderment at the chilling events that had taken the normally calm, almost sleepy town in north-western France by storm.

The murder of the priest in an attack that also left three others injured, one in critical condition, was France’s second terrorist attack in less than a month. But for many residents of Saint-Etienne-du-Rouvray, it delivered a clear and indelible message: terrorism in France is no longer confined to the big cities or popular tourist spots.

You could never have imagined that in a little church like that such a terrible thing could happen

With bloodshot eyes, Pascale Lecomte remembers looking on from the window of the nursery where she works as police swarmed the nearby church. As security forces arrived, she and her co-workers did their best to shield the small children in their care as she heard the gunfire.

“You could never have imagined that in a little church like that such a terrible thing could happen,” she said once back in the safety of her home.

Her thoughts were echoed by Gabin Bayouki, a male nurse born in Congo who moved to Saint-Etienne-du-Rouvray 20 years ago. “You can’t believe that this happened here,” he said. “It is going to change things, for sure. If this can happen in a small town, and in a church of all places, where are you safe?”

Like many of the town’s inhabitants, Mr Bayouki knew the slain priest well: he had baptised one of his four daughters in the same church where the attack took place. Fr Hamel had also conducted the confirmation service of Mr Bayouki’s eldest daughter. “Everyone knew him,” he said. “He was always very open, always around.”

In a sign of how small the community in Saint-Etienne-du-Rouvray is, Henria, one of Mr Bayouki’s daughters, crossed paths with Adel Kermiche, one of the two suspected terrorists whom police shot dead Tuesday morning. He had grown up in the area.

Now 19, she recalls the time, about seven years ago, when she went to the same leisure centres as Kermiche. Showing photos of him on his Facebook page, she described him back then as “relaxed” and “laid back … everyone is shocked by this,” she says. “It’s just impossible that such a thing can happen here”.

Looking around the centre of town, a collection of small streets lined by three-storey, red-brick family houses, it is easy to understand her disbelief. However, less than two miles away, Saint-Etienne-du-Rouvray morphs into an immigrant-dominated, graffiti-ridden nest of high-rise tower blocks.

We have to get used to the new reality. This is just the beginning

One social worker from the vicinity, and who did not want to be quoted, says that local budgets for anti-radicalisation and other programmes have been slashed in recent years. The number of staff specialised in sensitive social issues at one of the department’s “prevention clubs” has halved from eight since 2013.

Back at the town hall, Hubert Wulfranc, a history teacher and mayor, fought back the tears as he addressed media and local residents alike. “Let us, together, be the last ones to cry,” he said. “Let us, together, stand up against barbarism.”

Shortly after he spoke those words, people lined up to sign a remembrance book, filling it with condolences for the families of those affected by the attack.

On the streets outside, meanwhile, pessimism began to set in. “We have to get used to the new reality,” said one person who withheld his name for fear of reprisal. “This is just the beginning.”