Surreal atmosphere evident but city's spirit has not been broken

Having recently completed work placements with Johnston Press, we invited them to provide first-hand accounts of their experiences reporting in the city centre in the aftermath of last week’s horrific terrorist attack. Here’s Matthew’s account ...

The atmosphere on the train into Manchester was eerie. It was the morning after the worst terrorist attack in the city since the IRA levelled the Arndale Centre in 1996.

The old Northern Rail rolling-stock carriages were packed with passengers pressed against each other and the air was hot and sticky. The mood was quiet and contemplative.

There was no loud music bursting from headphones and the only sounds were barely audible whispers between friends.

People confided in their phones, no doubt keeping up with the latest developments on the appalling events of the night before.

Walking through the concourse at Piccadilly Station, the awful reality of the situation hit me.

Armed police dressed in black with automatic weapons were standing guard. If you were brave enough to look at them, they looked straight back at you.

At first I felt alarmed. The rifles at their sides seemed unreal somehow. They resembled the toy guns we used to play with as children. They seemed somehow too big, as if made from shiny plastic.

I noticed their fingers clasped around the triggers. They were prepared to protect.

A nervous energy was palpable. People walked fast and with purpose. Nobody wasted any time getting from A to B. We kept our heads down and only looked up briefly if we heard a siren wailing in the distance.

I worked my way through the Northern Quarter and past the hipster hang-outs. I was touched to see that the bars and cafes had already registered their support.

The now iconic ‘I Love Manchester’ sign was already emblazoned across shop windows and advertisement boards.

I headed to the Arena but every approach was cordoned off. Police stood diligently on guard while journalists from across the globe mingled, speaking to each other in broken English.

Marco, an Italian reporter approached me and told me he had been visiting family in London before being despatched to Manchester in the middle of the night by his editor in Genoa. He looked lost and tired.