Protestant, Catholic, remainer or leaver, a common theme quickly emerges on a short stretch of the Irish border: a feeling that they are the invisible people of the Brexit crisis.

Not even an incident two weeks ago, when a high-profile border businessman was left for dead in a ditch after being abducted and tortured, made it into the political consciousness in London, least of all Downing Street, where Boris Johnson once compared the border to the congestion charge zone in London.

As far as locals are concerned, the lack of interest in Westminster is no surprise. It was ever thus.

David Black, leaning over the counter of a hardware store in Fivemiletown, just north of the border in County Tyrone, said: “It’s Northern Ireland. Nobody wants us anyway, not in London or Dublin. We’re just the scapegoat. People are just fed up.”

Brian Johnston, who has a shop 12 miles (19km) away in Lisnaskea, Co Fermanagh – which has a heavily fortified police station as an ugly reminder of the past – said: “The people that are impacted the most from Brexit are people on the border. But they don’t talk to us about it.”

Facebook Twitter Pinterest Leanne Thompson is a dairy farmer on the Irish border. Photograph: Lisa O'Carroll/The Guardian

The attack on Kevin Lunney, the chief operating officer of Quinn Industrial Holdings, in nearby Derrylin shocked Ireland, acting as a reminder of IRA punishment beatings and prompting fears that this part of the border has remained lawless despite the Good Friday agreement 21 years ago.

But the uncertainty over Brexit is generating more prosaic fears, about the normalcy of life, house prices, livelihoods and a background noise of growing dissident activity.

Leanne Thompson, a farmer whose land is near the border, said: “We tried to sell our house last year and nobody will buy because of the border. It is too close. Buyers were saying they would like to buy, but they didn’t want to risk living at the border.”

The complex area of frontier between the Irish counties of Monaghan and Cavan and the Northern Irish counties of Fermanagh and Tyrone zigs and zags in a horseshoe shape.

“The biggest thing for us is the border – can we travel? Politicians just don’t understand what life is like here,” said Thompson.

Drive out of her gate and turn left, and you are in the Republic of Ireland; turn right and you are in Northern Ireland, but within minutes back in the Irish Republic again as you approach Clones.

Her farm is in Northern Ireland. She gets her electricity from the Irish Republic. Her children go to school in Northern Ireland. Her neighbour’s farm is in the Republic of Ireland. The old bog road to the left connecting the two main roads to Clones was once closed.

“They couldn’t do that now, because they have built houses on it,” Thompson said. A dividend of peace that will be a nightmare for authorities after Brexit – deal or no deal.

I cross the border six or seven times a day; so do most of my customers. What are we going to do after Brexit? Brian Johnston

In a garage down the road, nestled off a three-mile stretch that is Northern Ireland, the 68-year-old owner is confident there will be a hard border. “There are already mobile customs units going up and down here doing random checks for booze and cigarettes. Any intensification of that will effectively mean holdups and delays. That is a hard border. It’s not watchtowers or soldiers,” the owner said.

The road, despite being a rural single carriageway, is the main artery from Cavan to Monaghan, shuddering with HGVs and dairy collection tankers whose drivers barely register as they pass from the N54 (Irish road name) to the A3 (Northern Irish road name) and back again to the N54.

Johnston said: “I cross the border six or seven times a day; so do most of my customers. What are we going to do after Brexit?”

He owns an agriculture and equine supplies business and has already taken steps to mitigate the impact of a no-deal Brexit, opening a second shop across the border in Butlers Bridge to ensure he keeps supplies and custom flowing in the event of mandatory checks on agrifeed.

For dairy farmers like Thompson on the border, Brexit poses an existential threat, and faith in politicians is in short supply.

“Brexit is just less than 40 days away and we are still in the dark. No one has spoken to us,” she said. “If we couldn’t get our milk collected every day or if there is a tariff, we would go out of business.”

The flourishing local dairy business has consolidated to such an extent that much of the creamery production is south of the border, leaving farmers metres or miles to the north on a Brexit cliff edge.

They are paid 24 cents (21p) a litre, but EU tariffs on imports to the Irish Republic would add 21 cents a litre to the cost, leaving the farmer with no business.

There is also a fear that communities once split in two by border checks, road closures and sectarianism are at risk of a repeat division because of Brexit.

Facebook Twitter Pinterest Ciaran Mulhall at the Peace Link’s playing fields. The centre has built cross-community links through sport. Photograph: Lisa O'Carroll/The Guardian

Ciaran Mulhall, an administrator at The Peace Link, a sports centre, said: “There are eight roads into the town, but only two or three were open in the Troubles. It meant people from nearby couldn’t be bothered coming into Clones.”

It was built with £6m of EU money and has been vital in building post-conflict relations through sport.

Rosslea, the hometown of the Democratic Unionist party leader, Arlene Foster – four miles away – felt light years away during the Troubles.

“That four-mile journey turned into a 16-mile journey into Clones because of detours caused by road closures,” said Mulhall. People from Rosslea gravitated towards Enniskillen, 24 miles away, because there was less hassle. Clones suffered badly, with businesses disappearing through lack of custom.

“There were no new businesses opening in the town. Protestants wouldn’t come here to shop or to have a drink,” said Mulhall. “The disconnect was always there. Even though people lived just two miles away, the habits were formed and were ingrained and when peace came, it was still difficult to persuade people to come into town.”

Five years since opening, The Peace Link is now proving a cross-community draw and building social cohesion.

“We have people from all over the place, people in their 40s who grew up in the Troubles coming in and meeting people they would not have met before even though they just lived out the road,” said Mulhall. “You hear them saying: ‘Oh, he’s a nice guy, they are all normal.’

“Yes, suspicions will be there for a long time between Protestants and Catholics, but in this place [the sports centre], religion doesn’t matter like it did.”

Business in Clones has also picked up, with a couple of new shops. “We’re still about a fifth of where we were before the Troubles. We’re only looking for our fair share, to get back what we lost during the Troubles, and Brexit puts that at risk,” said Mulhall.

“If there are any checks on the road, these people will turn back to their old ways and reverse what has happened.”